Slightly lost

I write you in slightly lost lines;
fine lines of mildness like a morning
walked with no purpose along a path
not really leading anywhere but beauty;
beauty in colours, in glorious textures
rustling under my steps and whirling
about my hair, ultimately perching
fleetingly, like the taste of something
too delicious to name it, between my
lips, and then simply vanishing into
this thin, transparent air, as if they
had always been there, here, in
the essence of what can be seen
only if we don’t search deliberately.
Why do I say these lines are slightly
lost? It is not a question, as much
as it is not a matter. Life does not
always have to be about a subject
or indeed about a place, about
coming from or going to. Much
like dream, far beyond the clichés
of sweethearts or even the utopias
of creative thinkers, life can be
simply about living as we never
dreamed we could actually live
and finding, without caring to seek,
how easy it can be, because it is
natural. Just like love. Yes, love.
Love lived in slightly lost lines;
inherent lines of warmth like hands
holding hands with no purpose along
a path not really leading anywhere
but beauty; beauty in unaffected,
effortless shapes of bodies that
fit mutual and simultaneous curves
of lust to perfection, yes, lust, so what,
but lust with the pulpous, unabashed
awareness of more, infinitely more,
too unfathomable to name it, melding
them, melding us at the core. Like
the core of these lines that you are
reading like no one else could, like
breath itself; these lines I write as if
they had always been there, here,
in the essence of what can be seen
only if we don’t search deliberately;
like breath… slightly, delightfully lost.

-- © 2007 Alexandra* ~ OneLight*®