She

This must be what they mean,

When the great poets talk about how it feels to meet Her. 

She, who makes your blood pulse like every stolen kiss is a hundred meter dash.

She, who leaves you so breathless that every inhale is your first, 

born again. So you run home

With a fool’s smile spread wide 

across your face. It doesn’t matter!

Your heart would beat just as loud,

Your breath would be just as heavy,

Whether you’re lying in bed and dreaming of Her,

Or sprinting down those rain-soaked streets.