Delicate Pastel
our dreams are something shining
beloved as a gentle muse
we know we are not holy, and yet
this poetry where you and i
raid dictionaries of greedy fantasies
our selfish streak rises, surfaces
to have, to hold, to swallow within
inspiring words, our longing
yearning to be read, to define
and record loving and hating
so beautiful, so repulsive
and more... our words feel
no style of writing
no dancing, no chasing,
no warrior victories
in dreams of surrender
into sweet, dear silence
poetry plunges and swims
in deep pools, perfumed whispers
that die in captivity
and breathe at once,
so alive, so dead
somewhere - our voices speak
we write of love and say aloud
kiss, hold and caress
this glorious poetry, we pull
as a penny, from behind love's ear
until finite tics announce we are one
we weep in difficult moments
evidence love is essential
to light, hope, possibility -
your tongue caresses mine
as though eternity exists
we give what cannot be given
something, so difficult as this
our bodies sweat and tremble
beneath feelings; knowing
intimate wanderings
of tender, timid moments
that glisten like pearls--
our delicate pastel,
a mirror mist, that beads
our reflection - so beautiful
we kiss and kiss again
fingers, hands, arms
warm and hot and cold, the touch
this dedication of flesh on flesh
how desire and pleasure dreams
and breathes as if, passion
would commit quiet suicide
in a single kiss
deborah russell, 2003
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