Lustre

At an old sidewalk, with steps of chosen stones,
passes through the pink porch, where you, a beauty,
waiting in anxiousness to go to meet in carelessness of
arms, supported in white rosy balustrade, intertwined.

The glassy spheres of niche, a silent protection as home,
in abandoned ajar of three fingers for someone, searching
a bunch of red rose to offer to ambitious platonic lover
covered in waits of oblivion to illuminate inner sensing fires.

In a pair of moisten eyes, in search of waiting for miracles,
words sleeping in silence, remembering so many moments
like a castle of dreams in eternal beauty to walk unconscious
in the spaces of evening, surreals with thirsts of kisses suddenly.

My eyes, as hungry dog's pounces to lick your hands, lips ecstatic
insist, don't depart, from seeing you from far, waiting to conjoin,
I, with pink roses in hand too in my palms, porch as in sensual
ephemeral beauty, sinfully passionate, inhabit in a desire to lustre.