Sometimes it feels like
one of those pleasurable dreams
that get interrupted at the best part
or some kind of sweet spell
from which I never want to escape.
But when she wraps her legs around mine
and snuggles her head
into the little corner of my neck,
I know she's real.
At night when I'm with her,
all alone watching the darkness
slowly absorb the mist of our love making,
I like to pretend we're the only ones in the world
and everyone else, everything else
is asleep, maybe not even breathing,
and we´re the 21st century revisions
of Adam and Eve.
During the day, when we lock hands
and go to explore a serene island
or lie by the quiet lake and revel
in the relaxing notes of the little birds,
I would like to seize time
by its tightly-bound rusty collar
and make it creep and crawl
in order to have enough time
to savour these moments.
As I write this poem, the fourth
she has inspired me to do,
I imagine her seductively posed on a stool,
gently strumming the strings of her lyre
in a court where I am the king
or Shakespeare himself
watching and listening with my
swan-feather writing apparatus in hand,
dipping it in the ink of her inspiration,
then firmly, comfortable, transcribing words
from my heart onto a paper screen,
one virtual key after another.
Apr 16, 2013
Apr 16, 2013 at 6:13 AM UTC
Sometimes it feels like
one of those pleasurable dreams
that get interrupted at the best part
or some kind of sweet spell
from which I never want to escape.
But when she wraps her legs around mine
and snuggles her head
into the little corner of my neck,
I know she's real.
At night when I'm with her,
all alone watching the darkness
slowly absorb the mist of our love making,
I like to pretend we're the only ones in the world
and everyone else, everything else
is asleep, maybe not even breathing,
and we´re the 21st century revisions
of Adam and Eve.
During the day, when we lock hands
and go to explore a serene island
or lie by the quiet lake and revel
in the relaxing notes of the little birds,
I would like to seize time
by its tightly-bound rusty collar
and make it creep and crawl
in order to have enough time
to savour these moments.
As I write this poem, the fourth
she has inspired me to do,
I imagine her seductively posed on a stool,
gently strumming the strings of her lyre
in a court where I am the king
or Shakespeare himself
watching and listening with my
swan-feather writing apparatus in hand,
dipping it in the ink of her inspiration,
then firmly, comfortable, transcribing words
from my heart onto a paper screen,
one virtual key after another.