11 January, 2008

If I could direct the path my dreams take

(the simplicity of turning a white page)

of capture the patterns my exhalations make, the result

would be an hour lost in the memory of

the way your skin tastes (in the dark

of a warm room) the small quiet

of the journey of your hands, always,

the slow moments filed with your eyes,

closed, the purposeful movement

your dreaming orders and

the ardor and

Anticipation of a first kiss

Yet, I see only the west

the fervent grabbing the sun makes, sinking,

slicing beams through grey clouds towards

the paradise of the south

(a thousand lines of light yearning

towards last attempts at blue)

in the gathering dark.