Your body needed mine,
When it danced to the sound of my voice,
and the hum of my desire,
Remember when,
Your fingers fit,
Perfectly,
In my hands,
and your lips,
Touched me,
In all the places,
Words never could,
Remember when,
My legs pushed between yours,
and the world stopped,
and the pain faded away,
Do you,
Remember when?

Catastrophically beautiful,
Like kissing a storm,
and expecting,
Not to get blown away.

I'd like to run my fingers over your words,
I read them with hungry eyes,
And a fatal longing,
To know more about your mind,
Touch me,
and feel,
What you do to me,
Feel me,
and know what I'd do to you,
My hands are willing,
So write me,
When your body,
Is ready to be heard.

I wonder what it's like to be you,
Who are you in moments of quiet?
Why do you search it but revel in chaos?
You are a question unanswered,
A mystery many have tried to solve,
and fell to their deaths as they did so,

You are more than a woman,
a curiosity never sated,
a love never fulfilled,
and a lust that consumes my every waking moment.

I know you, what you show me anyway,
and I ache to know more.

When will you hear me?
Do I wait or make you listen?

Or shall I keep you on this pedestal?
Like the far reaching stars,
A beautiful light that I'll never touch...

the mirrors reflection
only ever spoke of her
as
weak, alone, a ghost
pitiful, mournful
wonder-less at most

it was her place to hide
but the mirror
LIED

she punched it
with her fist
until it was
shattered
and
broken
bleeding into the cracks
until it became
a
*reflection
                 truly
                          spoken

Somewhere between the dream of what it could be
and what it wanted to be, this poem hightailed it
out of town. Down the road it went, careening into
hedgerows, jostling small birds from their resting
time. Running for all it's worth, out to the sea cliffs
then arrested, stock still, before all that immensity.
Chagrined by such a rash attempt at escape, even
blushing a bit, it wondered about strange things:
What would it be like to be a badger? To always be
dressed in all those lovely stripes? To never have bad
wardrobe days?  Or what about an otter, with such
strong muscles, and an utter delight for swimming?
To never really feel the cold? These are the things a
poem can wonder about, when it isn't quite sure, just
right then, in the present moment, how to be a poem.

i.

She hath given me a home
Sent by God she was;
Unearthly, to men unknown.

ii.

She hath breathed the breathe
Of life;
Wherein all is right.

iii.

She showeth me day
In mine dismay;
She's the sparkle to me, at night.


©Brandon nagley
©Lonesome poet's poetry
©Earl Jane nagley dedication