To and Fro.

December 17, 2010
I press your back upon the cold tile floor of the kitchen.
If only walls could talk, they would sing to you these feelings of honesty.
My hands shake as they run up your sides, sprinting to your weakest point.
All vulnerability focused in your neck, bared to me, yearning for my lips.
Your hair falls, matching your breaths, with every rise, another dive.
My mind a garden at this point, teeming with golden sparks of doubts and hopes—creatures of light in the swollen nighttime.

Your eyes betray you.
Your hands disobey you.
Your lips cannot contain you.
You escape in one gentle moan.

I shall never capture you.
I shall never cage you.
I shall never enrage you.
Your spark is far too eager in its life.

My moon, velvet in silk, you are a beauty.
Every lullaby I hum, tunes and turns to you.
All I have to offer are these words, humble.
Paramour, I know your touch, too much, yet not enough.

I press you upon the face of the wall.
Paint the colour of the clouds, resumes its standing behind the arch of your spine.
You find your place, a throne in my shaking hands.
We move in a dance, as if entranced, by the music of the north, dark in its love.
The desk stares from across the room, humourously hiding its own memories.

Each petal falls.
Each petal wilts.
Each petal takes and stakes what we cannot.
She loves me, she loves me not.
She loves me.

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