They are building a story with their bodies,
a must-read tale of dreams

(but lines are skipped
between transparent ink
once you have entered the scene).

Movements that match a maelstrom
and a cool breeze in the summer:
Smooth and rich and beautiful and, underneath, real power.

A sigh is born within;
your weighted lips are double doors
or mansion gates:

Sweet breath crawls out and lingers,
swims from nose to nose and would-be suitor
to no chance loner.

Is there a sadness to your dark eyes,
blinking between the shadows?
A quiet dignity draws your face
but I have gone far beyond its facade.

I feel the cold stone between your ribs
you used to feed
from a bag of aspirations.

(Don't we all find that there's nothing there
when we reach a lonely destination?)

God, all these commoners and peasants!
How one could end so lovely,
how one could shine right through;

It is miracle and it is magic,
no cheap trick nor illusion of the eye,
no mask nor sleight of hand.

And why the wait,
oh, why the wait,
oh, why the hesitation?

Should not a prize be sought and cherished?
Should not a half seek to be whole?

Ah, but love is the irresistible force
that makes me an immovable object.
And as it breathes within me,
I am not swayed by flesh
(for I am simply gone.)