When you, from distant place,
chanced upon the vast blue
of my eyes
didn't they dance as brilliant jewels?
And while extending ear
to hear the twinkle in starlit heavens
but stumbling, rather, upon
the soft reverberation
of my two, half-moon lips,
didn't the thirst
that rides their every breath
call to you?
And when you thought to seek out flower in bloom
but allowed your gaze to rest, instead,
upon my supple breasts,
couldn't you sense their swelling?
How, then, do tender thoughts go unanswered,
and eager words so quickly become suppressed
by cold indifference
and long
silence?
Why then, as dust or ash,
or even lint upon your dark shoulder,
am I so easily cast aside?
. . . perhaps so eyes can swoon to fuller music,
and lips can pause to sip a deeper drink,
and so breasts, overcome with ardent richness,
might somehow rise to touch a higher knowing! . . .
or perhaps
only because
you won’t love me.
Adding your comment:
There's something about this that calls to me. Something I call "The Newness." Usually, puppy love. The beginning. But if you make it past that, then you're in "The Everyday" (where I think love lies--as in dwells.) Write on. One.
Love, C
