These eyes of ours blend, my love, hues
of invitation upon the air waiting for
the arms to embrace the sketch of the answer.

And it arrives, my love, like a dance – through
lines of this voluptuousness, in the cadence
somewhat unhurried of a tango, but, through
this hunger, passionate like a poem, without
having lost one single brushstroke, scarlet
and warm, in the path of words.

I enter, and you with me, my love, this dance
- like pulp of cherries that is bitten and
is, simultaneously, created as it describes
itself in our merged mouths.

We smile at the flavour permuted of this idea
that we glide, my love, across a floor which is
strangely alive and mutable – between orchard
written in an abundance that consummates itself
in juicy gifts, and canvas at the limit of a
certain impressionism that does not yield to
the laws of perspective, and searches itself,
already, in the fundamental forms, within whose
power, abrupt and meticulous, it seizes, and
us, my love, the evasive essence of fire…

- this fruity fire, my love, that we dance
and which licks us like no one ever painted
it, or it burned, before.

With me you return, in this dance, my love…
my poet… from the gradients we dilated, as
we planted the elemental axis of new, circular
waves, and the whole air flows, widely, through
the halo, open, of the orchard, the poem, ablaze.

We then dance, my love, the glowing core
that, upon the floor, alive and mutable, suddenly
paints itself cubic, like a box of colours…

- Colours filling this white, pure, my love, of
you and I being silhouettes delivered, simply, to
the flavours, to the syllables, enchanted, of
this dance.

Enchanted, the syllables, diluted in the kiss
enchanted and ripe, enchanted the steps, in spite
of any fatigue… as it happens, promptly left behind
and immersed in the mist of those invisible islands
that we raise on the floor…

– Which we then exit, to enter one another and
consummate ourselves, my love, completely, within
the intimacy of yet another secret mutation;

Also ripe, in the eyes, in the arms, in every
segment of its pulp… and yet, with all that
fresh, intense curiosity of a world that begins…

…In this dance, my love, each time.

© 2007 Alexandra* ~ OneLight*®