Thursday, November 17, 2011

Symphony No. 16 in Mid-November

I beg of you
to never change the tone
of your whispers, of your mid kiss moans.
Grazing your hands over the fire in the flesh -
underneath it all...
overwhelming felicity
swells up inside the crown of your head
flaring both our cheekbones to a
Venetian red.
Before I utter one more consonance...
seal our fate with a single kiss,
on this avenue corner in the middle of town
where the world stops,
held captive by the speed of light,
where no one seems to say a singular
syllabic sound.
Make certain you know
where your hands
grace, where they glide
slip your palm so subtly in mine -
lace your fingers around my side.
The taste of your breathe,
the countless ways your eyes glean -
reminiscent of all the humanly royalties 
yet unseen.
Wrapped in the protection of your arms
as you tower me over the scene...
you reeled me in with velvet eyes.
Hypnotized by the constant tug and push
of your lips against mine -
kissing the words right out of my mouth.
Out through the rouged opening that could not
be torn from the surface of your skin.
Oh! How does it feel to be rescued again?
Hours pass by.
Passersby blurred out from our field of vision.
No sense of clear division
between our anatomical bodies,
between us and the celestial bodies,
between our feet and the Earth beneath.
If some people are lucky,
they will sharpen their hazy senses and see
how it feels to make contact with that one in million.
Passion in the eyes of the hungry at heart -
the thrill of discovering this much anticipated start.
Nestling my floored facade in between
your chin and scarf,
lulling myself into a state of sheer ease
with your body scent so sweet
by merging itself
with the midnight breeze I once knew.
Planting my feet close to fact,
I remain marveled by your magic
with the bright eyes
of an insomniac.
Strikingly speechless,
quivering in the cross hairs
of the autumn reserves diminish
under the falling stars and
the poise of our first

"The Lovers II"
by Rene Magritte (1928)

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