To look, to touch, to hold,
To squeeze, to smell, to kiss,
To  unhappily release.
These truths still untold
Block the blow of our bliss!
To love from the shiver of the skin,
From the blood and the flesh and the bone
To the flame for a soul within...
To love and to feel alone.
To try to touch the incandescence,
To reach the limpness of a cloud,
To hurt both company and ausence,
To jump, to fly, to fall.
To cry and to pray and to kiss again
In a poisoning paradox of desire,
To feel as cold as ice and hot like melting fire.
In spite of the time,
In spite of morality,
In inspite of our parents,
Of our own anxiety,
In inspite of the world
And whatever watches from above,
In spite of ourselves,
To love.
To love and to pray and to hurt again
To jump, to fly, to fall,
To feel Hell and Heaven at the reach of a hand
But to know nothing at all.

Emmalou comes to my bed at night:
"Now Abby, tell me a story!", she orders.
"I can tell you about stars and the Universe's borders, or just moonlight."

they call me a nymphet
my narrow hips budding *******
my glowing skin rosebud lips
in the sun where i rest...
older women are fat and cold
with porous skin and dyed hair
they haven't their blades like gold
salient and bare
they haven't their thighs like ivory
of thin ivory are mine
i'm british and brattish
they're just fine
they call me a nymphet
with my schoolbag hanging
from my frail shoulder
decadent and delicate
please just for a while
not a nymphet
but a hurting child

When you are old and gray and cold
By some hospital's TV,
Rusty scissors will shine like gold
And you shall remember me.
If a nurse enters your room,
You see my eyes in her face!
Isn't fun how life's loom
Weaves threads of disgrace?
When you are rotten and always seen
Tormented by memory's fleas,
Oh, my dear, I'm not mean,
But I mean that life is.

My dear,
I don't know where you lie,
I don't know if you're already asleep,
But in order not to die, at least I shall weep.
I weep for you, my boy:
My hair, my heart are full of woe,
I am but Cupid's toy, and he's playing of loving you so.
A sad game, you see:
The maiden in her deathbed
She's crying “ay, love me!”, he’s leaving her instead.
I dreamt a dream, dun dear
Of your emerald eye and your coal hair,
But as I woke up, laid here
You had stayed there.
I prayed a prayer, o hunter,
The prayer of a prey:
That in my next dream
Here you’ll may lay.
And when you and I meet
And here and there are same,
Beautiful as in a lie,
From sorrow I shain’t weep
But from joy may die.