A cigar in one hand

a good book in the other.

A mysterious confidence

-a teleological aspiration of my youth-

To which only cultivated

words of wisdom,

only existential pillars of conviction,

could coat a mortal heart thereof.

Whose work gave immanence

to the eternal romance

of a thousand yesteryears,

the silk fabric of history,

the rarely confronted

fastenings of philosophy.

What a mental universe

has given mine

could not erode

even with the unwavering winds

of time.

What a beautiful design.

God must have taken to the stars 

to create you

for I am wild with wonder.

You could not have come from this earth.

There is not a flower as fine

nor a sunset as sweet

neither any other creature

so carefully crafted.

His beauty belonging

to his tender taste,

his carmine kiss,

his cinnamon-sugared hair,

his strawberry freckles,

and his hazel-rainbow eyed stare

No one will know you

nor could learn

how to touch you softer,

gentler,

nor more intimately 

than the cooling breeze

of a summer storm

sent with honesty

from the sea.

No lover could keep you longer,

could love you 

more relentlessly

than the long-craved for

climatic summer heat.

The young bronze skin of your body, glistening with glass beads of perspiration from an active afternoon, is the guardian of your intricacy, an ornate temple. Your sacred sentience is enshrined here.

It is when the most inner-ness 

of your universe

is drawn to all that is other,

when the godliness 

of your existence awakens

that your being

is just as honest,

just as relentless

as the love of our beautiful mother

in the climax of the summer. 

I want to be someone,

you have delightful daydreams about:

your lovely mind

drifting in and out,

carrying me away.

I want to be someone

you catch yourself craving

in the climax of the night,

clad in nothing

but the moonlight.

I want to be someone,

the underwater crystal caves

of your hot desire

produces diamonds for,

unwilling ever

to resurface to the shore.

I want to be someone,

who the pursuit of,

is a daily contemplation:

your lovely mind

composing our very own story of creation.

Am I the risk worth taking?

We will worship each other,

enshrined forever,

in the still of the heat

of the summer.

We will swallow the universe,

tripping on stardust,

entirely,

completely,

immersed.

I will bite your neck

and you will bite mine.

We will bleed young blood,

all the while

high

on the infinitude of time.

Falling is always the risk

and you and I

are falling from the earth

-through a stratosphere clear of clouds-

contemplating 

the worth.

Full, succulent.

A consistency

erotically compatible

with the flesh of my tongue.

An organ and its object.

Preoccupied with the sugar

of its juice.

Patient swallowing.

While water collects in tears

on me and mine

and these connections

I placed a metaphor

full and succulent.

An agency

erotically compatible

with the ambitions

of the flesh of my tongue.