He takes your breath away, he steals the night before you, constricting your sight and your eyes, he lies, next to you but his mind is a seafare away, in fact his presence is valid only by the point you feel lost and dejected, hands rejected. He moves in your head, your head, he waltzes in slow motion, grasps at straws, gasps for air, because you drown in his heavy stare. A thing of beauty, you paint him a picture in your mind, he takes control, changes the colours of the mood, lost you find yourself to be.
Two feet on the ground, the stars collapse and combust under the pressure of his gaze. He holds your hand, your hand is not your own, it is fragile as glass, an extension of your heart, your head, your head. Can you move your feet? Step, two, three, four. I am lost in your smile, it steals my eyes, stings to the touch, cold as the ice I walk upon. Are you there, where is he, going? He laughs and dust settles, He laughs and you are mute, he laughs with her mouth wide open, he will steal your breath. He wears a novel in the brim of his hat, he wears a footprint on her hand, he walks, he talks, he moves, in a language unknown to me. You lie still, belie me, tread a little carefully, dance a slow jig to my music. Listen carefully for I will say this only once.
Do not hold my hand, my words are dissatisfied with the mark they make. A beauty unsurpassed, sur-passable by my standards. Do not make me a mirror, I have no vision left to see, my head that you walk in, is running away with time. Smile, you make me. Tear your gaze from mine, I lose you, you are somewhere else, not here, I am blind, dumb, deaf and numb. Forgive me, if I know not what to say, sometimes I can do nothing but think analytically. Your touch mystifies my soul, I lose all sense of control, with no reproach I start again at the beginning. Of time.
An introduction to me is to be made. He is a thief by only the most awesome standards. Your muscles contract as his words, her mouth moves to yours. The taste of air, is sweet on your palate, shapes are made by candlelight, his scent is of positive delight, he feels like the night. Dark, endless, fulfilled by the moon. Delighted by the sun, you go on the run, not looking back but you drag your fingers behind you, longing to let go. Ready for the show, you undress with minimalist perfection; you take all but his direction, and watch for his musical face. Nothing is something, when it is not even there, because you can feel it, and you don’t even need to see what I mean to understand. By my second hand, I unwind.
I am not here, I am not there, I am not, anywhere. He seeks me out, I hear him call. I hear him shout. Each movement is a ripple, I feel him like a butterfly in my hair. Turns my head, makes me cry, makes me wonder why. Each breath tells a story, each kiss is a new chapter. He will write you a novel in a night-time of passion without a desperate loaded ending. He will whisper your name so that it no longer sounds like air through his pursed mouth. Blondie plays in the background and the candles dance in tune to the beat of the song. You move your fingers like they need to grasp his words. And nothing comes to your touch. Drowning in happily ever afters, forevers and forget-me-nots, love becomes a thunderstorm in a teacup....