You look at me, but I often wonder if you see me,
the person I really am;
the vulnerable heart hiding behind the bristles of the hedgehog,
the soul blackened by the memories of days not forgotten.

You touch me, but I often wonder if you feel me,
my yearning often contradicted by my righteousness;
my hidden depths often so far out of reach,
revealed only though the vibrations that challenge the solid surface.

You hear me, but I often wonder if you listen,
to the words behind the words and
the rhyme behind the rhyme;
to the sounds that don’t quite make it past my lips.

I look at you, and I know that I see you.
I see each day that’s laid its mark upon your face,
each crevice a memory of its own;
your life painted through the lens of my eyes

I touch you, and I know how much I feel you.
Your heart as it beats against my own,
the grasp of your hand against mine
and the taste of your lips when I draw you close.

I hear you, and I listen
to the rhyme of every word and the word of every rhyme.
To the many things left unsaid
and those spoken through your eyes.

I see you, I feel you, and I hear you;
I sense you.
But still I wonder,
Do you love me?