Premium Confessions to a Deviant Lady

Confession:
when I look into your eyes
my heart sings gentle lullabies,
and all aches seem able to wait
until my gaze must step aside.

Confession:
your voice is silky soft,
even through pillow-striking laughs—
if ever at me you scream
I will let the siren last.

And you’re a playful Darling,
with consonance in your chords,
but seem to believe that you—
like the dead—
can’t roar from flittering fingers.
I swear this isn’t true.
I will locate and excavate
your ticklish spots
until your tummy guffaws away.

Confession:
when we angle our chins upward,
considering those cumulus heavens,
I see several could-be shapes—
but you?  A single outline?
If so, I don’t mind.
These heartbeats pound to protect
your vision’s version of swirling empirical tides—
that feral wind restricted to your eyes—
and not thump, thump your breathing pattern to mine.

Confession:
love thrives—
in and outside of everything,
eternally now, forever alive—
for nothing thought can ever die.
So, I thought: maybe we could try
tuning to that finest frequency,
rub elbows with each other
while rubbing shoulders with the tides.

If not, I don’t mind.

Even if we never get off the ship,
it’s good to see a soil this rich,
and to know that these shores can exist—
perhaps on some other horizon.

But, I thought maybe—just maybe—
we could try.