I’ve spent thousands of
smiling hours
cupping the soft pit
of intellect in my hands
preening with its glow,
casting the shadow of lecture
on my greedy eyes.

when my feet sank
beneath her earthly soil
weeks slipped quiet
(like notes shaken from leather spines)
with no discussion of Plato.

the hardened sphere was
drained of all prestige
footnote and reference.

sometimes, before sleep,
I sharpen my doubts
and carve it out.

it sleeps by me,
a guilty golden mistress.
I am afraid
she will hear the warmth
through my phone.

Take into consideration that I've never
hurt an innocent man, but I've been known
to be less empathetic than most.
Counter that with an intuitive sense of *******,
calling it and speaking it, mind you, and you
will start to relish in the quiet nature of a
man that is fully invested in his environment.

BUT

What do I know, if I don't act.
Blame age?
Say that I'm young and I will learn from my mistakes?
Completely feasible, but it will only hinder development.
Blame yourself, I say.
Call yourself on your *******.
Know that your instinct should be followed through.
Get the feeling and act on it, however,
hold it in,
and everything goes to waste.
Your instinct becomes ****.

I so like you in purple.
It gives me a lift to see
how carefully you've
mixed and matched
chosen these tones
and textures to suit
yourself and make
a pleasing picture
purple-themed
for those that share
you when I'm not about.
 
 . . . and not being there
I often think of what you wear,
think of times and seasons
patterned by your choice of clothes
that give me so much pleasure still
like well remembered friends;
a certain skirt that falls and swings,
a dress that holds your body, clings
to your long thighs, and seems
to make you taller than you are.
 
Such simple pleasure clothes afford
When chosen well and worn with care
for colour, fit and flow
              with style and sense
and understanding (which you have
you know) of your dear body's
form and grace, and movement
as you cross a room,
        stand still in thought, or drive a car.
So much to love and to admire.