A masterpiece of springtime
The hillside
brushed with spring hues
rolls down across the valley.
Like a water painting
with too much moisture
it seeks the edge
of the canvas
just across the horizon.
I stand amidst the palette
as the ambers, and blues
slide off, dash across our garden
and highlight your features
with a brilliance
that summer will spend months
in vain, trying desperately to dull.
April fits you.
The flowers match your dress,
and the wind
still has enough chill
to be refreshing,
a perfect compliment
to your crisp blue eyes
and spearmint tongue.
You're a masterpiece of springtime.
A rare work of flux
that only the season of rebirth
could consistently refine
with brighter shades
and greater appeal
as years pass on
from one to the next.
I can't possess you.
You belong to the world
and whatever artist
that splashes the tint
upon your vibrant soul.
But I can hold you,
and let your lips
color my life
when winter tries to darken
any hopes
of my redemption.
The atmosphere that gives me life
I stand
at the edge of our room,
while you sprawl across the bed,
your hair splayed like silk
against blue satin,
one arm holding Yeats,
the other-
searching for mine
to pull yourself
up into.
Unaware of my presence,
you sigh in the hush,
your breath falling
below the volume of a whisper
and the night is stilled.
The quiet is complete.
It's as though
the whole universe
has decided
not to disturb
whatever dream has found you.
I look around.
You're everywhere.
You're in the books
inhabiting the nightstand,
the pictures hanging on the wall,
and the faded jeans
you left at the foot of the bed.
It's your gallery
carefully crafted
with your reflection.
The sheets match your eyes,
the picture frames,
your hair,
and the walls a soft pastel
nearly as gentle as your soul.
I stand here sometimes
after waking in the night
to use the restroom
or go smoke,
and watch you.
Always amazed
by how your essence
folds around my life
without stealing the breath
right out of it.
Every time I see it,
every time I think about it,
I can't help
but see myself as the earth,
and you
as the atmosphere that gives me life.
Delicate
When the edges of midnight
curl up around us,
blanketing out the moon-
your softness beckons,
my pulse quickens
and follows yours
into quilted shadows,
and delicate aching want
as though
I hadn't touched you in ten years
instead of hours ago
while we sat, hand in hand,
watching the sun
pull the clouds up over his eyes,
and settle in for the night.
It's like this, always-
my hands tremble,
and my heart stutters
each time your breath grows shallow,
and your eyes suggest
I might be welcome
to slide inside you
before you fall away to dream.
And no matter,
the uncounted times I've known you,
your colors flowering beneath me
still pierce my soul with awe,
your irises gather darker blues
as if they pulled the green from mine
swirling us and them together
into a shade of want and need
uniquely ours.
And when it's over,
when dreams finally claim you,
pulling gently at your mind,
taking you somewhere beyond my knowing,
I'll be left to wonder-
how so much energy and passion,
could have such delicate features
and feel silkier than the sheets
that lay upon us every night.