|
What is this winging thing called love that plagues me with its errant dove? My respect for you has built a bridge, spans my knowledge cross the ridge of lust. I feel it, so must you, the wants for each other strong, it tells, oh taunts.
What is this bridge I call respect now? It is your mind that stuns me and how you came to be so sweet of heart. See my heart, I write no ending symphony. I play the music I pen with your name. I stay hard at what will reveal no game.
I hear the words you say to me each night. My soul is strapped, bound along them tight. Your laughter my delight, your soft humor treat. I would walk proudly with you any of life's streets. And you whisper, I do not know that I can, of the wonders we may enjoy hand in hand.
I brave not to speak my love because a fire consumes what it touches, bones of desire torch the flames anew, the smokeless heat dwells within the gut and bowels to defeat misgivings, the lonely doubts, light the burn of fever, the pangs of hunger that turn and turn.
Your face is darkened in my photo, but I see arched brows of kindness smiling too fairly an imagined sea of green, in the shadow kiss promised by full lips pursing the want of this long distance union, this meeting of horizon of wishes, naked desires to join as a final one.
Will your eyes see as mine, mine as yours? far past the face, the skin, the body, it pours compassion, empathy, sympathy, to lay down with the sick, seek to comfort, call the sound of all is well, and kiss, yes, my fevered brow. You, woman, will be mine, be my very ground.
I would know your touch, the pressure of your hand, the soft rounding of your hip as we walk this land. I can not be broken or be lost in the black despair when I have you to hold, when I have you to share. I shall bring my honesty, my comfort and my pain, for in my love is desperation, a mist, a weeping rain.
You are what I have sought in the painful years of emptiness, the plodding trail, scattered tears. There is a freshness to you, a joy to fill my ages of loneliness, lift my depression, turn the pages of mystery to solutions with so able distraction. You, the one, meet my mind in hot satisfaction.
� 2000 DPMcClellan |
|