Beaches and bed and Bedouin tents
I just wish you woke up in sands
My fingers softer than wind on you
My gaze a small wet patch of kiss on fears
Throwing your demons out to keep guard
Old friend spoke of angels on our walks
I corrected him that they flee from battles
That you and I cannot but walk in solitude
We're the two rebels who chose solitary confinement
Because we cherish our skin and soul
And it does not matter where I meet you
Or where I bid you goodbye
Just how long will our kiss last
How deep will your teeth be in my fears
How violet my fingers will be on your waist
How red will your flesh be and mine
Nothing but colors of you and pages
Of inks and coffees and wines and grass
Of the slow soft grind of your leaves
The smooth fire of my drinks
And a dessert of your lips and a desert of your fears
All this and even none of it but you.
This. This is the ideal. The you. The me.