Her eyes;
    they speak of butterfly calamities-
  moments of rapture, captured and
          woven behind Saturn in her gaze.
Wouldst that she was here -
  a soft touch, ivory dawn would lick fingers
    upon the fine lattice of her bones...
sparrow-song caught breathless in her infinite melody;
 the slowbeat song of her subtle heart.
I could swear these god-stroke nights were
        but another shade of pale, awed
 in her beauty.
And if I could I would make gift of this rose;
   caught amongst wildflowers, frosted with dew
  and the blood of romance;-
I would gladly give,
    but every waking moment is
  a mockery of the miles that lay between;
Every breath a thousand breaths apart.
           So I wait, this rose and I -
         from hours to days,
       seasons to years....
    til' these seconds turn to moments,
  and your heart is all I hear...

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