You smile, you shift upon a lush and mighty hip, and whole worlds alight. There are fires and multitudes that cling to your shimmer, that drink of your shadow. So goes your lithe and seductive dance upon the earth. So goes the work of beauty, half sacrifice, half swaddling cloth. You are summit and you are precipice. Graceful and lovely, you are cursed with all manner of imposition and obsession. Glory and madness surround you, while your heart leaps hurdles, and the universe ignores your voice.
This blessing of flesh and soul and aptitude, these anchors of attention chained to your throat, these flocks of words that gather unbidden upon the eaves and trees around you: you fear that your name will never be your own. Even knowing this, the burdens of my squalid desires swarm to your shine, clouding the clarity of my vision, obscuring the truth of your being. We are all strangers, are heart-felt approximations and consensual fictions to one another. Everyone has their reams of scars and crowns of thorns to contend with, blinking from the stinging of that blood that trickles like pain sweat into wide open eyes. All the breathless prayers cast after your heels, all the shuddered convulsions cast upon your imagined indiscretions, all the mistakes made from prejudice and heart-break and unfortunate ink that thread the invective your beauty makes you wear are only some of the lesser misfortunes that humans must endure. The silk of knowledge always straining with the leaden claims of belief.
This is the puzzle, the trouble of language. There are no words fine enough to convey the sheer animal impact of you. Nothing heavenly or carnal that can elaborate your claim upon my grizzled soul, such is the adaptive magic of attraction. To say I want you is only to expand upon my lack, the legions of absence, the armies of indolence that make up this unfathomable distance. It does nothing to mark or measure your eminence, the heady precipice that your luminescence makes of any leap of description. You move and ache and struggle through a world to shocked by your beauty to know how to touch you, glorious and unattended for all the attentions that swap and storm you. In a place so godless, brutal, and bereft, all that I can do is see you, and know how all this adoration must soak smother. All that I can do is hope that there is a place for all this beauty to breathe.
This blessing of flesh and soul and aptitude, these anchors of attention chained to your throat, these flocks of words that gather unbidden upon the eaves and trees around you: you fear that your name will never be your own. Even knowing this, the burdens of my squalid desires swarm to your shine, clouding the clarity of my vision, obscuring the truth of your being. We are all strangers, are heart-felt approximations and consensual fictions to one another. Everyone has their reams of scars and crowns of thorns to contend with, blinking from the stinging of that blood that trickles like pain sweat into wide open eyes. All the breathless prayers cast after your heels, all the shuddered convulsions cast upon your imagined indiscretions, all the mistakes made from prejudice and heart-break and unfortunate ink that thread the invective your beauty makes you wear are only some of the lesser misfortunes that humans must endure. The silk of knowledge always straining with the leaden claims of belief.
This is the puzzle, the trouble of language. There are no words fine enough to convey the sheer animal impact of you. Nothing heavenly or carnal that can elaborate your claim upon my grizzled soul, such is the adaptive magic of attraction. To say I want you is only to expand upon my lack, the legions of absence, the armies of indolence that make up this unfathomable distance. It does nothing to mark or measure your eminence, the heady precipice that your luminescence makes of any leap of description. You move and ache and struggle through a world to shocked by your beauty to know how to touch you, glorious and unattended for all the attentions that swap and storm you. In a place so godless, brutal, and bereft, all that I can do is see you, and know how all this adoration must soak smother. All that I can do is hope that there is a place for all this beauty to breathe.
