What is this game we play, you and I?
Two people who like each other,
yet who are afraid ... of what?
Like a fogged window,
where I wiped my hand to clear the view,
I saw you and every one
where I wiped my hand to clear the view,
I saw you and every one
else blurred into the mist.
You watch the distant skyline,
wrapped in the cold wisp of fantasy
where love is constant,
never changing, carrying no risks,
never changing, carrying no risks,
where the promise of an errant breeze
is proxy for the warmth
of a loving touch.
of a loving touch.
I saw you in your dark blue shirt,
sleeves rolled above your wrists
and longed to feel the warmth
of your hand on my own,
the scratchy growth of your beard
of your hand on my own,
the scratchy growth of your beard
against my lips
as I lean in to kiss your cheek.
as I lean in to kiss your cheek.
I want to love you, to arouse you,
to hold you for my own, and to set you free
for the warmth of love in reality.
3 comments:
Your muse doesn't know how lucky he is.
Sometimes, I get an inkling he may be aware of his role in my little musings, but others, I doubt he has any idea. At all. Oh, well. (But there's always the possibility that you, just a collection of pixels and bytes, may also be a muse.)
He's a man. Believe me: we don't know shit about what goes on around us; our usual default state of mind is "DUH". When women understand this and learn to put their brains into neutral and think down to our level we men will still not realise it.
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