Eight days

There's a gentle southwestern slope
And a tourniquet, soft with longing
Two seas of time, flanked by waves of perfect dark
And divinity chiseled into living marble.

There's a pensive distraction
And the slightest flicker of a glance, which makes it worthwhile
Fragility is a bitter thing
(Need, desire, worship).

And the seas turn ninety degrees
Bringing all this back into perspective
A rush of warm blood, he's illuminated again
The adoration ossifies, building a less fragile feeling.

Reciprocated need reaches this way
And finally wholeness settles in
As a sound like fine crystal fills the corner
Perfect accompaniment to the lavender expectation.