Eyes can’t help but look,
just as Beauty begs
all attention
must be hers.
Like a million other times
Beauty walks up super close,
expecting my words
to be soft like hers
I gently take a piece of her.
Sensitive and attentive now,
I reach for Beauty’s wrist.
She smiles,
and freely gives up herself.
One must understand,
there is no handbook
to explain this
contract of ours.
Execcissive or otherwise,
Beauty knows exactly how
to move and keep pace with time.
We are desperate lovers
we claim what we already know,
tonight,
the stars are ready.
With all good reason
the power is firmly grasped
around a golden choker
a brilliant family heirloom
clinging tightly to her throat.
Like others from her past
Beauty and her silence,
I can’t help but ask,
“I need the smell
of your sacred perfume.”
Beauty listens to my request
she knows I expect one answer.
Instead,
she opens her bound fist
handing over to Me,
her stubborn thorn,
sitting it dead-center
in the palm of My hand.
With an exaggerated breath
Beauty explains,
“Against a thousand blinks and sighs
narcissism is to blame
her dutiful reply,
for such a,
breathtaking thorn.”
Eventually though,
I open my book of poems
and relay the stories
starting most definitely with
“Doubt the sun doth move.”
Immediately,
she shoots me that look
her eyes squarely up
she knows the rule.
There is something,
in our ancient verse
I felt the weight of her eyes,
melting mine.
On tiptoes now,
Beauty begins her whisper
her forbidden words
inched up close.
She does this,
incredible pause,
where I am left
hanging
on her
every word.
Dragonflypoetry.com 