Of Wolves and Wood Nymphs

Memory lane tripped me and I fell into your lap.
Plaintive young man
placed your heart in my palm
(nestled naked in the hammock of my hand),
drew vulnerability like a sword and wielded with trepidation,
disarming me softly.
Ambiguity was but a shattered shield, and I
whispered,
“Come back, breath.”
Your eyes are kind, though they can pierce,
your teeth are sharp, but sink them in,
and lure me with a murmur to your den.
You’re not so big or bad, too sweet for those,
but, Mr. Wolf, I’ll let you eat me up.
Though it stopped my heart to hear it,
it’s a pleasure to devastate you, my dear.

And yet…

My closest confidante, what shall I do?
I’ve waited several quiet years for you
and, over time, become The One You Trust:
a state too damn invaluable to thrust
into the fickle hands of Chance, who may
at our expense, compel us to decay
if ever we should carefully implore
about the possibility of more.
To entertain the notion is unwise.
Likeminded as I am, I empathize
with fear of capture and containment, so
around your throat my hands will never go.
Which leaves me wondering, what do you want?
The rapid-fire beat of your heart does haunt.

I
cry during songs which may be mine, look up into a face which dares not return my gaze
through eyes impenetrable as their owner’s mind.
We are hiding from each other. We are only honest near sleep.
The window is a blessing and a curse. I need more time. Will you wait for me?
I’m not ready to risk losing you.

I
watch clouds drift beyond the smooth horizon of your shoulder and imagine that we are floating with them in our own small buoyant world. And fear creeps in here, too. It IS me you want, correct? I’m not a substitution for lost love? The words you whispered in the grey glow of TV evoked the most electric tenderness. You apologizing had me on my knees.

To whom do I belong?
To me.
With whom do I belong?
Fuck!
and love
are both four-letter words.