Friday, January 26, 2007

Killing Me

You are killing me with images of yourself.
You make me want to write poems
that will allure you to me.

You make me want to know
more about the beating heart
beneath your pulsing flesh,

the undulations of the skin on your breasts.
There is the gentle movement
like the blur of the pale moon in the night

and I want to watch it. I wonder about
the scent of your skin when you are asleep.
There is the rustling of the sheets as you turn,

they leave a trace of a muse,
melodies still lingering.
There is a stray forgotten hair

on the pillow next to you.
There are a thousand tales
caught in the five inch

strand of gold, silver and amber.
They stay forever out of focus
because your heart has too many colors.

They stay out of focus because
you know I'm not yet blind.
If I ever meet you

I shall have to be blindfolded,
I will discover the hollow above your eyes
and the gentle shape of your jaw

where it rises to meet your ear.
I will find jewels in the place
where earrings go to war

to have a place above your smile.

Tonight if I don't find you in my dreams I will die.
Tonight if I go as such I will have not a single regret.