The quiet of the evening is reflected by the books on the shelves,
rows upon rows of this merchants offerings
a trace, a scent of exotic coffee lingers
I know not of what I seek, but I sense it near.

It is music, of course, that I explore first
in one hand I hold Verdi’s “ Rigoletto”
the other, the Doobie Brothers
Deep in thought I feel his eyes
questioning this simple woman.

Distracted I briefly turn and look to him,
he holds Etta James and Yanni.
A smile and raised eyebrow reflects my response
politely, softly, I speak, introducing him to Kitaro
and I leave to find that of what I seek.

I find myself again in solitude before the words of poets,
browsing Frost I taste his candied words
closing my eyes I see his Birches sway
I reach for another and my hand is met,
he also reaches for his offerings.

It is but a moment that our hands are joined.
Yet in that moment I feel the fire of Pompeii,
the burning awareness of a moment in life,
I shake, I tremble,
I turn to look at this soul known stranger.

In the eyes of others he would seem plain,
limp straight hair that falls untended down his back,
eyes in an unremarkable countenance,
clean, yet tired clothes hang upon his frame
speaking not of the hunter, instead the secure.

Ah but his eyes, his eyes that sparkle with the reflection
of many lives lived,
wisdom born of the suffering of passions known and lost,
eyes that are but a reflection of my own
for they do not turn from my gaze.

Only poets are foolish enough to believe in words,
being not a poet his eyes speak to me
and mine to him, Oh blessed moment of peace,
of beginnings, safe in the knowledge that we have met before,
it is then that we realize our hands are again joined.

Oh brave Ophelious lend me your strength,
for we never truly know if what we feel
is returned in measure by the other,
chancing the retort of slap upon my face
He reaches and gently brushes the hair from my eyes.

With gentle smile I lays my head into the cup of his hand
a sigh if offered by my soft lips
an invitation greater than any known,
He pulled me towards him,
eyes close as our lips are joined.

Ah, illicit kiss that last a thousand lifetimes
stirring passions long silent
hands explore unfamiliar curves
the scent of his arousal is equaled only by my own.

Frantic passions search for a vacant corner
where buttons are released
and intimate secrets are offered for the touch,
the taste, of the other,
unashamed exploration, unabashed offerings.

And it is the lovers circle that we are joined,
in flesh, in spirit, in sweat
as the words of Plath, and Joyce, and Yeats
become as voyagers to our passions
their words unable to convey this moment of lust.

Sing silent muse who guides our lives
and carry this passion to new found heights,
for love that is born by the chance that is taken,
is the music of Gods in lives no longer vacant


~SAS~