Tossing and Tortured 'Till Dawn

I come back to you now, at the turn of the tide.

Monday, January 31, 2005

My journal had this to say this morning.
My heart racing, though eyes refused to believe the sun so close.
And in that moment between dream and dawn,
I believed I held you; your hair cascading over the pillow,
My fingertips caressing the smoothness of your side.
I believed we were leaving the same dream.

A quiet, lonely morning as the water poured over my head
Imagining what it would look like rolling over your curves
A man can have no such curves,
And my own eyes in the mirror are a pale substitute
For the shimmer -- and the shiver -- yours provide.

A quiet, lonely morning as I pulled on my jeans,
Denim's touch is hardly known for its compassion
And no solace in bootlaces, nor belts nor shirts
Silent conversations with an understanding teacup.
I nodded and sighed, then headed for the door.

But as I slid into my coat, black wool prepared to face a morning
Far colder than this one, in truth.
Shining against the black, a single strand of hair.
Warmth, then, and a smile: You left it behind without realizing
And indeed, I knew you'd never miss it.

A flash of memories, all at once, though I tried to slow them down
Wishing I could cling to each glance, each brush of lips.
Recalling touch and scent and always, always eyes,
To say nothing of the whispers we gave to each other
The words, as well, but more the breath on my neck.

But how ecstatic must your life be, as YOU wake up each morning?
If but a single hair can summon such joy from the silence
And you, with a whole head of them to keep you warm.
And I'm well aware, these are risky thoughts indeed.
One way or another, my secret would come out.

and to be quite honest I've revealed it, enough, already.


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