Beneath the glow of the midnight moon he lies next to me.
The cool breeze from the open window ruffles his hair and my fingers itch to run through its downy softness.
Such a sweet contradiction, a man is.
All hard lines and muscled physique give off the aura of strength, while his touch is softer than the petals of a rose.
He is the last of a dying breed, this man.
The true romantic in every way.
His eyes are so tender when they look at me, the swirling amber lights in them resting on me, putting to memory the love written on my face beneath the moon's light.
When he looks at me, he sees not the imperfections of a plain woman with no special features that would make her beautiful.
To him, the sweetest poem by Frost or Shakespeare falls short of explaining how he feels for me.
Instead, he sees the truest of poetry in my eyes and behind my every smile.
How lucky I am, to be considered beautiful by him, and for me to be able to hold his heart.
I fall into the depths of his love, riding the waves as they hold me and ever so gently carry me home.
Sharply I inhale as the callused pad of his thumb reaches out and traces the line of my lips.
Never breaking eye contact, he leans forward and I can almost taste the desire on his lips.
"My love," he whispers as his hands frame my face and his lips touch mine.
As stars explode behind my eyes I'm drawn completely into the love we share.
Outside the moon continues to shine, and the breeze still blows.
But inside, the passion we have is creating a new world of its own and I gladly succumb to its magic.