Eros
There's no pleasing melody like hearing
my name dance on your lips,
like the fascination of a dreamer
reading more meaning into a burning fire.
Where the coos of the forest birds
hold no more significance than a chirping,
and the lyre playing from the way
your lips dance, to hear you repeat
a name, my name.
How fleeting could the passing of a sound be?
If one is deeply engraved on the soul,
as I have become, by your words,
nothing more than the manifestation
of Eros, in the most passionate agape
I have fantasized.
There's no other feeling that could amount
to the touch of a sweet surrender,
to be rekindled in your fingertips,
cold flames that burn my flesh in pleasure.
To be for you a submissive—to your avid desires.
Seldom to be borne in love,
reproachful to be left unloved,
entwined in this passive affection.
Your lips calling out my name
in the wildest way I have ever heard
a person whisper, Eros,
too easy to ignite,
too hard to quench.
W