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.)