And he’s a poet
Simple in many ways yet entirely complex
Except on Sunday afternoons, when the sun half exists and the breeze shifts autumn leaves
across the street- There, one might catch the faintest smile bloom across his ever present frown. 
I’ve caught it one or twice, usually in the moment where our fingers intertwine
Or when the sweetest bottle of red touches his lips.
Shortly after, 
His stoic composure returns, lost in words and riddles.
He undresses the paper the way I’d wish he’d undress me, but I’m merely a side character in the life of a skeptic.
I linger in the doorway now, selfishly wishing the morning would forget to wake, I’d like to keep this scene on replay. 
Without looking up he recites lines dripping with sensual conversation and witty banter-
I find it most difficult to regain focus when he speaks in rhythm with the storm.
Blood runs, boiling over, exceeding past limits of my own passion
My breath catches in my throat
I have this thought
Is this love or just poetry?