The look that always passes between us

From you—gently brushing hairs from the nape

Of my neck (to better embrace the shape

You always said)— is without hurry, fuss,

Worry, affliction, or affection. Thus

It is that I feel this genial rape

(The only term for the manner you drape

Across the two of us) is soulless fuss.

Although loving without love is shameful,

And never have we two claimed otherwise,

One oft' finds intoxicating beauty

In softer lines, ever luscious, playful,

That confound the mind, underneath the guise

Of that transcendental holy beauty.

(A/N: Another sonnet for CW, not submitted for fairly obvious reasons. Subpar as the mechanics go. But I like to think that the message comes across right.)