038
I hum a tune for my love,
a whisper for her ear;
love, lust, a crow or a dove?
a wish to disappear
into tender pulls and shoves—
the silky waves of sea—
of hands that hold, grip and touch,
and lips that press and smear,
and eyes that speak words too rough
for soft tongues, too severe.
Thus, I ask, is it as such
that I must sit and hear
the ticks of a hand; the clutch
of time that cannot bear
to once be gentle, so much
as for my lorn heart care?
Is love but a dream too tough
for me to grasp and share?
Perhaps tunes are not enough
to find a spark so rare.