for Pablo Neruda*

In your poems
the sun sang
yellow invitations,
eagles swam
in lilac ink,
butterflies discoursed
on desire,
the moon
whispered white
mysteries.

Your syllables said:
these are my arms, Lady,
lose that silky frock
and come into them.

My love feeds
on your love,
Love.

My lips
are for you.

You are mine;
I am yours.

We stand here,
the briefest moment;
let us stand together,
naked in eternity.

Dare to embrace this,
you murmured,
for it is all
the world can offer.

Eyelids fluttered out
ardent yeses;
sighs replied;
fingers danced;
many dresses
glided to the floor
with tiny gasps
of imagined pleasure.

Flesh and spirit
conjoined.

What woman,
could resist
the implacable sweetness
of your songs?

What woman,
having a heart
to hear,
would want to try?
- mce

i left my mothers arm
and i left my fathers home ....
and i fell into the well
of sorrow ...

I'd give you my heart but
its made of stone
oh I'd give you my
but my heart is made of
stone

Here I am, laying in my bed at 3am in the morning.
My mind went to sleep hours ago, but my eyes are wide open.
My mind went to sleep hours ago, yet thoughts race through my mind like formula 1 cars. Thoughts race through my mind, and they keep me wide awake.
All I want is you here in my arms and I need you to make the thoughts go away, so we can fall asleep together, holding eachother.

in•fat•u•a•tion (ɪnˌfætʃ uˈeɪ ʃən) n.
1. the state of being infatuated; foolish or all-absorbing passion.

the first time I laid eyes on you, I knew you'd have an impact on me
you'd hurt me so deeply,
so shamelessly.
so strongly and so breathlessly
and I let myself drown in you and you only.

"Were it not for imagination, Sir, a man would be as happy in the arms of a Chambermaid as of a Duchess." -- Dr. Johnson*

And what of angels, that dream?
The young face reflected on the stream,
More reflection than its living flesh?
From what field does inwadness thresh
Acceptance and vision enough
To know the desolateness of love?