Blood race

I love how new this is, how heart-wrenchingly good,
while half of me wonders if it will all fall, spades over hearts,
when shaken, or tipped.

The racing of my blood fills my throat and holds it, vice-like,
and thus clamped I struggle to toe the line and follow the path,
training wheels missing.

Could you perhaps start with a look, so I can catch it, knowing,
at last, where this is going to go? Words in wireless trip over their own
pregnant definitions.

And maybe if you start with that promised look, I will be happy
to offer up arms in greeting, hands in welcome, folding you close
to feel your blood race.