"There but for the grace of you go I…" ~ Simon and Garfunkel~

He breathes cinnamon scented life into my body,
virgin fingers on new skin.
My Pygmalion, lusting after his own creation.

You are mine, your white naked beauty,
your perfect marble face.
Be still, I will wash you in light, in shadow, in color.
You can be nothing without my eyes on you.

Unable to make truth of myself, I sink
under your hand. Saturated in the smell of blood,
of life, of death. Tell me this. If
the railing of this bridge was not here to hold me back,
would you take its place?

You are a plaything of my mind, you are fresh,
you are cold dew for my heart,
you cool me down, and you breathe on my flames.
Ignorant inspiration is the most desirable, love.

(Goddess, bringing life, if I had been alive I would have spit
on your pale celestial feet
.)

His passion frightens me. He watches me eat.
White teeth on red fruit,
this symbolic fruit, seeds fitting together,
crystal structuring.
Beauty in contrast. Beauty in passion.

Beauty in possession. I love your shy fawn eyes,
your wispy soft hair. I made what I like. My fantasy
come to life.

He curves his hand around my shoulder--the rounded tips
of his fingers grace my skin.
His touch softens, I see rainbows. He is
the ocean, I am lost in it,
warm slow waves.

My ice melts slowly, but
it does melt, love.
Under the light that rains on me,
I dissolve for you.