There are small lines about your lips.
I think that each line tells a story of all the stories, concerning skin, and art,
And Love,
And with every imprint of Time upon us,
Be it Sorrow or Joy,
Meaning is impressed on the shell of us,
Like a gentle Sculptor's Model,
Developing nightly.
I like to trace them, softly, in the darkness, those small lines,
Imagining the words, (coaxed from you with low rumbles and beard in neck growling)and watch the breath that comes with their Awakening,
Which seems, like Magic, to Rush to Touch,
Summoned.
You call it "Fight Against Resuscitation", but I notice, cheekily,
Your lack of struggle.
You always said you loved empowering things you
Desired.
Am I just a Hand, then, after all, shifting in this Shape with You?
Come! Sway with me, this little while, Sweet, and I will show you the way
Hands Speak with
Silent Sigh.
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