She wore red…
but I dreamed of her
in blues
Sabine
I will always say
that for me Sabine began
with her hair
and ended
with her lips.
Her soft curls
speckled with sand
hung always in her face
like fireworks falling.
Those golden locks
half hid her face
to heighten the desire
to draw me deeper
to see beyond.
She wore red…
but I dreamed of her in blues
as her hair cascaded over her carved features
I was felled
as a failed attempt of a tree to touch
the cool falls just out of arms length
unable to caress
those soft spirals, the shower of swirls
that had sped a spray of feathered shafts headlong to heart,
arrow with anchors to plunge in mind.
Her body spoke…
a tone hinting of the strength
embedded in her character,
yet my eyes lingered like insolent youth
on curves that could speak to any man
and leave him awake at night
in a restless scourge, a hanted haze,
as her hips
spoke in rounded tones
of the children to come.
But only she
could I approach
to soothe the sorrow she had spawned,
to trust her
with this sting of guilt, this stab of sadness
this instinctual urge.
I approached the source and she
responded such as only a mother could,
yet as this wry and wretched road led only to loneliness
scattered with slight but piercing shards of shame
and together in the stillness grew
like a changeling child
from fleeting affection to darkest love.
It was her lips in the end
those soft French lips
that made me turn away
from the fresh insult
of the softened touch of unreturned affection
and when those lips no longer
enhanced my eyes view
I could only say, in that ever-French way
“I cannot support this.”
Only in my dreams
does she say to me now
with her eyes of three colors
and her lips – Oh lips
“Please”
