Passion is the highlighted text in the school-issued copies of the classics-

you know you're not supposed to leave your mark but you do anyways.

Passion is like burning your tongue on your coffee because you

can't get it down fast enough,

but still seem to savor it.

Passion is the way you move against me when you sleep,

and the way I can feel it even when you aren't there.

Passion is how I've filled notebooks, journals, and novels

with stories of you,

and how I still have the words to write more.

Passion is taking it safe,

and then breaking all of the rules just for the hell of it.

Passion is blood red and rose pink,

but also the color your eyes turn in the light,

and the white your knuckles turn when you are begging.

Passion is your voice at night,

slow and raspy and sugary,

and passion is your whisper in the morning,

new and youthful.

Passion is poems on post-it notes,

and text messages at four in the afternoon.

Passion is massages and arthritis pills at 52.

Passion is dancing to your favorite song,

and feeling like the Earth could end right then

and you'd be fine,

as long as you've got a dance partner.