if only

if every moment of the day
were spent longingly
casting eyes upon her face
there were not be enough
time.

if silence spoke the words
beaten out in rhythmic code
by a palpitating heart
nervously admiring her.

if the comforter wrapped
itself like her arms slowly
around, twinning like vines
through trelieses and arches
overhead.

if the scent of the windy rain
soaking the sandy black dirt
beneath the southern oaks
draped in spanish moss
were her.