just enough nights, not intently enough
it promised much, and much it ended soon.
what could bring forth those tendrils
of lips and arches in your form?
no voices with their hurried calls.
just searching eyes and searching souls,
and incessant fingers making circles.
and remember well, too much to remember,
forever the lips, the brushes of skin,
your hair swept in the folds of my dream.
where i, and you of that constant night,
bade well the primitive slumber, and woke
to stir heaven out of its content.
but to dream well is to dream and die
so i willed myself to face the dark
than spill your name alone in the night.
