Hoarding, as a miser would, every sight of you.
Reverently, I guard these moments granted me.
When other assert their presence, voyeuristically,
I stand back and watch you, absorbed in them,
As I am absorbed by the image I see:
Your head bent toward the child, beatifically.
And yet you would glance up with a look
To say, Hello, again, I know you're there.
That one moment's breath in time, I greedily grasp,
To bring out again when in a quiet solitude,
To be in awe of, as a child with her first rainbow.
And when the class is otherwise engaged,
I glance up and view you, viewing me, a look
Of utter expressionlessness. But we, who know
The passion behind those masks, so craftily made,
Disbelieve each other's studied indifference.
And when I have you to myself in your room,
The tantalizing nearness of the body I long to hold
Is still out of reach, for someone enters,
Asking assistance, and once again, I am a voyeur.
Yet those few stolen moments, by ourselves, alone,
Where the masks are lowered; I feel complete,
As if my whole existance were created for you.

Oh, Love, in you I see and feel the passion
That is memory of past days. Remembered
Pressure upon my skin. The feel of your skin
Is etched on my mind, and body. Your voice,
Telling of the most innocuous details, thrills
Me with echos of passionate endearments.
Your smile beacons me to kiss your lips, to enjoy
Your hands on my hips, perversly akimbo. The
Most innocent of gestures made me-ward in
Here is filled with sensual meaning. The random
Glance, that lands, as a flitting butterfly
Graces a flower petal with its being, fills
Me with wondering pleasure. Poetry cannot
Do justice to that which you epitomize. Words
Lack the ability to capture the emotions you
Evoke from deep within me. Love.

Your nearness, the presence, makes me be
filled with a magnetic urge pulling my soul
with an implacable motion.
Your voice, washing over the class, with the
same effect as the tide on a beach: small pockets
of water may remain for moments, within a gouge
in the smooth stretch of beach, before being
absorbed into the minds of the students, to be
dispersed amid all that is beneath the surface.
And there is one pool that is myself,
gladly accepting each wave, holding it precious,
accepting the nurturing that it brings, allowing
all these strange creatures within me to grow,
directly in relation to the tide.
What a metaphor.
Alex.
Rolling off the tongue and mind, filled with
Love and Passion. The name brings images unseen,
the feelings reborn of all the times of being
touched and held, with looks, or phrases, or
flesh-covered love.
Alex. Love. One and the same, to add to the list
of four letter words I am refused by society
to mention.

..."Can we go to lunch?"
What a reminder of mackerels.

Athens 2464, home of Jennifer Mottram