nocturne (for tomas)

You, Orpheus of the eyes, lyre lying unstrung
and silent as your voice:
but those eyes—
piercing
powerful
and pale as native ice,
they sing nocturnes of angels on their own.

I, infidel of the heart, self-frozen in self-pity
and skeptical of any advance:
but those eyes—
juxtaposed against a backdrop
of glittered jewels and formal dress,
of humanitarian messages and whispered intrigue—
those eyes.

You, fascinating boy, laughed voicelessly,
and at ten paces those eyes found mine:
kismet
(kiss me)
and I, nouveau socialite, lost the ability to smile—
each stolen glance as real as a blow to the chest,
as intimate as lips on fingertips—
again, and again, and again.

And hours past, across the floor,
a besotted girl engirded by your bared arms,
her head on your shoulder—
your eyes on the band,
the ceiling—
on me,
warm (as my face) and surprised (as I).

Sweet Orpheus, you have made
this cold girl wonder
how it feels to be a woman.