Snow Globe

I cannot comprehend what happens to me the moment I see you.
It's science, at its most basic level.
You arrive, our eyes meet, and then something happens.
It's as if the world shrinks.
The porch becomes a snow globe.
And we are its lone occupants.
Even if the porch is full of other people.
Even if the air is filled with conflicting conversations and music to dance to.
There is only you and I.
And I know you feel the same way.
We fight the same struggle, trying so hard to resist the other.
It never works, regardless of how long we spend trying to fight it.
Our resolve breaks on eye contact.
Shattering into the white flakes of the snow globe.
They float about us, just another part of our little scene.
And all we can do is stare.
There's no sound in the globe, just like there's no one else with us.
We move like we're in water, so slow.
And time lingers with us.
And the flakes fall steadily about us.
We exist alone in the silence of the moment.
Your eyes shimmer like emeralds.
They always seem to shimmer just a bit more when you look at me.
And I know mine do the same for you.
Maybe not shimmering emeralds, but I know you see something.
Something only seen by your eyes.
Something you know to be yours, and yours alone.
The definition of a blissful moment.
But soon that moment passes.
And the flakes stop falling.
Time resumes its default speed.
The globe vanishes.
The world returns to reality.
Later, you'll leave, and go back to the life you lead outside my porch.
And the globe becomes nothing more than a memento of a moment past.
And you'll put it with the rest of the globes you've gained over the years.
A bookcase of tender moments and faded memories.
The parts of your story that you should never forget.
But ours has its own special place on those shelves.
High up on your bookcase, out of reach, but always where you can see it.
Waiting for the next shake. Waiting on you.