The Fluttering Brush
The Fluttering Brush
Is this bed you make more than a pillow for your head
have you slept beside me
inside of me
wrapped in the press of longing
and brought yourself to where the darkest dreams of losing are told
Are you not merely sleeping
but waiting for the speech of some eloquent tongue
to lure you from this unabated cushion
immersed deep in a wanting hung on your whispering breath
Have I not loved you enough
for that
Do you come from some silent sea
entwined in these oscillations of passion
sending the skipping stones of your heart beat
kissing on waters of my soul
does it appear to you as circling stars
and are you reminded then of how I held you weeping in my arms
Is the quiet night teeming with memories of half waking
unconfined on bridges and boarders of some other idiom
reciting in syllables of love and lust
where the wings of your lashes are a fluttering brush
How do secrets of contentment rise in simple things
you roll from beneath hours between
light filters the cunning of day from resting limbs
dallying delicately on covers of the bed you make
For more than just a pillow have you slept beside me inside of me
wrapped in the embrace of yearning
and sent skipping stones of my heart beat
kissing waters of your soul
to where darkest dreams of losing are told
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