You are the explosion of carnations

in a dark room

Or the unexpected scent of pine

miles from Maine.

You are a full moon

that gives midnight its meaning.

And the explanation of water

For all living things.

You are a compass,

a sapphire,

a bokmark.

A rare coin,

a smooth stone,

a blue marble.

You are an old lore,

a small shell,

a saved silver dollar.

You are a fine quartz,

a feathered quill,

and a fob from a favourite watch.

You are a valentine

tattered and loved and reread a hundred times.

You are a medal found in the drawer

of a once sung hero.

You are honey

and cinnamon

and West Indies spices,

lost from the boat

that was once Marco Polo’s.

You are a pressed rose,

a pearl ring,

and a red perfume bottle found near the Nile.

You are an old soul from an ancient place

a thousand years, and centuries and milleniums ago,

And you have travelled all this way

just so I could love you.

I do.

From Suzanne’s Diary for Nicholas, by James Patterson.