Author's Note: Hard to explain, but imagine a peasant in Olde England (surprise!) who comes home to his wife, who is blind, so this is what she feels, smells, tastes, and hears.
I feel your hair, warm in the sun
I feel warmth on your cheek, the day is done
Onto another, full of scorn and shun
But I refuse to turn like a coward and run
I hear your voice, so deep and wise
Slide over my lips and into the night it dies
You bend down, and kiss my closed eyes
We wait for tomorrow, for the sun to rise
I taste your tongue, cherishing mine
Sweeter than honey, than the sweetest wine
Sweeter than the sugar on which we dine
The smell of your skin on mine is my shrine
You sound like a beast, as you sleep, in its lair
But as you wake I stroke your hair
You kiss my cheek like there's no care
I can't see you, but I know you're there.
I feel your hair, warm in the sun
I feel warmth on your cheek, the day is done
Onto another, full of scorn and shun
But I refuse to turn like a coward and run
I hear your voice, so deep and wise
Slide over my lips and into the night it dies
You bend down, and kiss my closed eyes
We wait for tomorrow, for the sun to rise
I taste your tongue, cherishing mine
Sweeter than honey, than the sweetest wine
Sweeter than the sugar on which we dine
The smell of your skin on mine is my shrine
You sound like a beast, as you sleep, in its lair
But as you wake I stroke your hair
You kiss my cheek like there's no care
I can't see you, but I know you're there.