Eighteen Minutes Passed the Hour

If a day had only eighteen hours I would gladly spend the first sixteen musing over the thought of her. A more amorous day I find hard to imagine, and were I to be proven wrong, that day too would become only if she insisted.

I am completely and utterly bemused. Reason tugs at me – It cannot, must not – should never be. It’s not reality, it’s all just an orchestrated play. But yes it is – as real to me as the shadow that follows as each footstep takes me further from away.

Drunk in awe I am of her. A fact I wish I knew of ways to adequately say.

I blink and she is gone too long, her touch I have so long evaded for fear of what I wish to never say. I really should just come out and say it, I mean really. But what if I ruin it? What if I make this beautiful place disappear – or even worse still, what if I make her disappear? I couldn’t bare that thought. As much as I long for just a moment to hold her – just a moment – not to speak or breathe or think, just a moment to be, I cannot risk it. She means so much more to me than superficial bits and pieces.

Why exactly I don’t think I will ever be sure. But then, I don’t think everything in life needs to be validated by proof or facts or even reason. Sometimes some times are just there. And they exist as do we…the trick however is to find harmony between them. The joy lies in experiencing them for what they are, precious.

Each time that I am near I sway to the pulse of her smile and have to stop myself from saying that “gods dammit I am so swept away by you”.

And I know that even as she reads this, the sweetest grin across her face is just appearing, a giggle, a chuckle or a smile perhaps?

I know she knows, because we both know.

You inspire me. I am captivated.

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Nail Polish Polka

Everything forever a mystery.

What a wonderful thing adding to a colour – something to mean.

A brush upon pearlescent.

Surface so pure.

An aesthetic to please none but the weary pools of lost endeavour.

 

Coy it becomes.

The glimmer of her smile across a place

that captivates so

this humble servant of written word.

Another stroke of nine to go as one is left so perfectly to cure.

 

Moments not even left for gone had determined this colour upon

a place where I long for mine to ever clearly be.

Touch.

The bristles sway as she controls its wash.

Moving with grace a lifetime may see never perfected, this artist does.

 

Eight to go and time stands still.

Again she looks and sees it right

enough to shift her gaze and with a slight adjust

the brush to colour another must.

 

Trivial a thought this pattern be.

For one as amazing and careful as she,

the artist drops to seven as bristles they seem just never quite right to be.

Colour this darkness true

as black and things for her it just

doesn’t seem to rightfully do.

 

A beige, a natural more reflective face

she opts for them to have.

Subtle she decides to be.

They sway slowly from side to side, this artist and her five.

 

A lover’s choir in the auditorium

of brush and subtle colour.

Just to dry and then to bed, she looked across to him and said.

Just to dry and then to bed.