You’d share this wealth with me?
This wealth: this pale skin; this mouth;
the surge in your keen eyes; that walk?
That walk: where you,
all limbs and undulating grace,
descend upon my body:
my body as a waif, begging?
Shall I call you
lover -
erect a word as shrine
to these deeds, these motions like monuments
that lack all but name in meaning?
Shall I make you bear a title -
bond you with a breath and two sighed syllables,
string you as a puppet to my tongue?
Lover. Lover.
Lover.
Are you that memory’s figment:
a ghost upon each quiet moment’s throne;
an etching in between the gaps of business?
All sting, and bite, and vainest hope,
a dot of grit in this mind’s eye
Will you oasis in the night, mirage by morning?
Lover - can I cage you with a sound?
You’ll escape the structure of a noun
with the surge in those keen eyes no word can tame.
And with your smile: a key of promise;
a veil, dropped; an open sky,
You’ll walk, all limbs and undulating grace,
to descend upon my body,
my body as a waif:
begging.
