Such an ironic moment. To be so lost when I am most found. The realist in me is telling the poet to shut up and enjoy it, but words come out none the less.
Your eyes are like standing on the side of the road, riding your thumb. A kind of lost makes you feel so free that the fear of being far from home is overwashed and lost. Like you are.
Your lips are that first car that stops and smiles, welcoming you in. Taking you out of the cold that has set you free to a place where you are found.
Your hand, a blanket. Spreading warmth over whats left of the frost bitten soul you hold inside.
And when it all comes together. The lost freedom of leather backing, the welcomed wholeness of companionship, the warmth that can’t be put into words even by a poet fighting with his inner self.

Then

You have love.

Then

You are found in a place so unfamiliar it can only be described as

Perfect.