In the middle of our conversation
my eyes are drawn
to the pale,
translucent skin of your throat,
to the shadowed hollow
and your perfect bones.
I am struck blind
by the holiest of visions.
Later staring out of the darkness
my fears are stilled
by the soft
remembered curve of your smile,
and the touch of your hand
when once alone.
I am sublime
with glorious religion.
This is by no means a new poem of mine, written some years ago and posted here four or five times. But one always adores a neophyte.
© the author writing as Romantic Dominant
Art by Thomas Saliot
You must be logged in to post a comment.