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Her lace was as delicate as moth wings,

while I slowly glided them past her feet,

toes at point in expectation.

Her heart is always true,

always clear,

always too fragile.

I move her to me,

with hands that have seen better days.

She waits.

Her breath heaving her chest;

anticipation always plays games with

arrhythmia, tachycardia.

The butterflies numbered and sequenced,

brought into the realm of science.

She sighed "I love you"s to me,

as I worked subtle magic

with tongue and hand.

She was illuminated,

a living stone creation,

in the pale blue of the early morning,

where sleep was king,

and we, a reformist movement of two.

I worked alchemies on her flesh

as the sun climbed the sky.

She was velvet divided.

And I,

an enraptured reverent soul

captured by the dawn.

COMMENTS

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imagesinwords
18:08 Jun 08 2009

You have certainly been undone by beauty. You are a prize for your lady as she is for you, and I am happy for the both of you.

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