I Think About Her Eyes
When I’m alone,
I imagine her,
basking in a quiet afternoon light,
yet there is a lovely nuance in how
imaginative she might be.
Without me, or him, or she, or anyone else
that might design their own authenticity,
she is only her favorite touch,
her quiet remedy,
an aromatic, delicious, eyes closed,
a tap, a sweet response,
her gasp envelop the streaming sunlight,
with contact upon naked skin,
allows that heat to resonate beyond
She is beauty and grace,
the natural lines of serenity,
with pause for a dynamic focus,
she smiles there,
moves on to her next surprise.
She may imagine,
flowers in a meadow in spring,
perhaps, a morning, when lingerie,
caressed her state of mind –
in every drop of innocence she writhes.
To touch woman in her beauty,
is to grace the skyward valley of love,
to know truth in why man might exist,
to gather in the radiance, her design,
that which drives the mind,
beyond the hope to the actual release,
that moment, that explosive, unbridled
need to go further, go beyond, pressing need
will draw her bath as we float through life together.
There is real beauty in painted portraits in motion,
yet elegance exists while in quiet repose … her eyes.