Before me, lovely

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Status: Finished  |  Genre: Poetry  |  House: Booksie Classic
Poem in prose; on beauty, love and solitude.

Submitted: July 01, 2010

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Submitted: July 01, 2010



Before me, lovely – Beautiful; beloved, pure and free – all the things I’ll never be, in your brilliant face I see. Your coal-dark hair, its glossy fall; those bright dark eyes, their murmuring mysterious call, where pain and beauty bleakly shine. That fragile neck and slender waist, where pale long fingers seek to twine. Those swaying arms and dancer’s legs; that lilting laugh, that knowing smile, where sultry shadows glimpse your glow. That supple skin, so firm and brown; that fine-boned face and rippling form; the veils and dances cast by your gaze -

Oh! Such beauty was destined for love.
And I alone, always alone wishing, waiting, hoping – waiting.
And I Alone will never know.

The shiver of hair flowing over shoulders, like a whispering waterfall in midnight blue; a step so light it could spring weightless on the foamy clouds; eyes that at once hold the truth of day and promise of night; a flute-like form as light and entrancing as a sursurring summer breeze or a soundless ripple in a lonely lake.

To be so lovely – how must it be?

Wet urgent lips in the hot hollow of my neck and blinded eyes staring blankly, adoringly into my own unseeing ones. Welcome hands on faultless skin, fragrant and unblemished as new rose petals. Free bodies falling, colliding, pressing, pressuring, exploding into rhythms that I know yet haven’t felt; moving musically, unconsciously, harmoniously in a dance I know all the steps to but have never danced, to a melody that is at once universal and personal – and comes to me now, like a forgotten favourite childhood tune, in bursts and vague strains here and there, halting, starting, stopping, then starting again, jerking, baffling, frustrating, like a mocking mess of puzzle pieces on the floor, fragments too tiny and numerous for me ever to reconcile. If only I could hear it, not in my head, not in my sleep or in my dreams, but on my skin, I would remember every note and fit every fragment. But I’ll always be deaf to that music except in reverie – and there, after the dance, we collapse on that great grassy floor with a million stars raining down, with a kiss godnight, and a smile in the primrose light of dawn – a promise kept, what you have known, what I cannot.

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