the way your hair
falls to frame your face,
and caress your shoulders
the way i wish to.

the soft arch
of your brow,
like gates.

your eyes,
a more beautiful
reflection.

the gentle turn of
your nose
and
your high
round cheeks.

ah!
and your lips!
to feel the
heat
of your breath...

and to be
able to
brush your neck
with hungering
kisses.

the low Valley
between
your *******.
garden
of sweetest
flowers.

and surely,
to rest upon
your thighs;
those beautiful
Hands
entwined
in my hair.

and then tracing
the length of
your legs.

each

seperately.

kissing behind
your knees.
while i wonder
where these feet
have traveled.

tonight is strange.
you see,
i slept today
at a friend's house.
but now, cannot
sleep.

and when i say "slept"
i mean;
i laid there
in her blankets,
and thought of you.

and when i say
"thought of you"
i mean;
i wondered if
at that moment
you missed me too.

and when i say "wondered"
i mean;
i imagined your lips
against
my eyelids.

and when i say "against"
what i meant to say
was;
that i wished you
were held against
me.

and when i say "held"
i meant;
that i'll take your problems
and shoulder them
as My own.

but dear,
when i said
"problems"
what i meant to say
was that your
ink-stained fingernails
are god-crafted.

and by "ink"
you know
that i mean;
you've forever
left your mark
on me.

and by "mark"
i mean;
that you've drawn
in all the sides of
all the best poems.

and by "drawn"
i offer up;
that this is not
the first or last
time we fire one another
and scald the oceans.

tonight is strange,
indeed.

it's a good thing
You always know
what i'm really
trying to say.

i am not
all-together
much of anything,
really.

i am driven,
and lazy.
running water,
and ash,
baked into the earth.

i am both
undeserving,
and
the only one
worthy of
Love.

i am flotsam,
and bubbles,
and that coin
which sinks once
tossed Into the
fountain.

i am grass
heaped high !
to feed cattle.

and discarded
watermelon
seed.

but you !
you're the same.
and then,
not the same.

you're flourishing
flowers,
and wilting
autumnal Leaves.

both witness the scythe.

you are living inspiration,
and monument
to entropy.

and if you have veins
then let me be
the salt in those veins.

and if love dies,
then let it die in me,
first.

i couldn't stand
to see it
the other
way around.

Same.
Not Same.

if you are the mirror
then am i
not the frame?

but all of This:
the prose,
aggregate metaphor,
lonely night,
cold morning,
wine drunk alone,
the joy of Longing,

not
all-together
much of anything,
really.

except maybe;
to display.