Nevermind Brownings or Fitzgeralds.
It is not a matter of belief -
Here, let me me convince you:
Soulful words, honeyed eyes,
you are more than I know how to want.
Your hair twists casually, spirals,
like the breath in my throat
when you lean in,
with the gentleness of death.
With all the crimson passion of life,
somehow, held
in your unflinching, cerulean glances.
It is this: truth older than the oaks,
Fingertips skimming down ivory ribs
which hold more hymns than any
Steinway or meadowlark I have studied.
Psalms that will be sung, not for a single moment,
but eternally,
but eternally,
long past our egress -
this desire will inevitably be
historic.
historic.