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For |
You ask my favorite color.
It is you.
My favorite scent
is not lilac,
no perfume, not oils
of lavender or cedarwood,
but you.
Peaches taste sweet
in season;
so do plums.
But they do not rouse
my tongue
as do
you.
Your voice,
the rush of your breath,
excited,
erases from my mind
all music, all bird song.
Silk merely irritates
after your skin has brushed mine.
My senses belong to you.
New senses arise from you.
In me, you have created
a new language,
without vocabulary--
white wind through orange blossoms,
salt of invisible seas.
copyright 2003
B.D.
Love |
