Her eyes;
they speak of butterfly calamities-
moments of rapture, captured and
woven behind Saturn in her gaze.
Wouldst that she was here -
a soft touch, ivory dawn would lick fingers
upon the fine lattice of her bones...
sparrow-song caught breathless in her infinite melody;
the slowbeat song of her subtle heart.
I could swear these god-stroke nights were
but another shade of pale, awed
in her beauty.
And if I could I would make gift of this rose;
caught amongst wildflowers, frosted with dew
and the blood of romance;-
I would gladly give,
but every waking moment is
a mockery of the miles that lay between;
Every breath a thousand breaths apart.
So I wait, this rose and I -
from hours to days,
seasons to years....
til' these seconds turn to moments,
and your heart is all I hear...