NARRATIVE POETRY

The water’s surface rippled under gusts of wind. The geometry of these faint ripples shifted constantly, as the wind wove a labyrinthine path among the rocks—some slicing through it with sharp, clean edges, others drawing it in through hollows and gentle curves…
And that same softness flowed toward the pale, opaque expanse of your back, rippling across your skin as you breathed, your face resting against the pillow. In profile against the silk pillowcase, your face revealed the tenderness of sleep. With your eyes closed and your eyelashes delicately interlaced, the scene I had been clinging to in my imagination—that sunset over foaming waves, ships anchored in the harbor, and seagulls resting in a row along the pier—faded from view…
When you stepped barefoot onto the carpet and walked toward me—your face expressing the ineffable—I noticed a subtle arch in your brows, rising into the air with the patience and grace of a swallow gliding through the sky. I took your hands in mine, though neither of us could tell whose fingers were colder or more in need of warmth; nor could we discern the source of the gentle, temperate calm that, at times, would seep in…
As the morning dew began to fall, a perfectly constructed spiderweb—adorned with glistening, trapped droplets—took the form of a delicate, vibrant jewel. Then the sun emerged once more, casting sharp rays between two ashen clouds that finally parted, allowing you to bestow upon me a kiss composed of honey and mystery. From that kiss, other kisses were born, spiraling out toward the night, rising toward the twinkling of a star—of ten stars, of a thousand stars—scattered across the vault of the night sky. They drew us toward a summer repose, beside the silvery ebb and flow of the sea. I loved you with greater clarity, with a more iridescent shimmer, and a bonfire—softly crackling—ignited amidst our sensations, which lay exposed like newly sprouted flowers…
To touch without pulling away—to lay oneself bare, much like a stream gliding along the sandy edge of a ravine, its fish—oblivious—swimming with supple, swaying fins. Or like a crystal glass, perfectly transparent, its contents receding under the thirst of my passion—a passion ignited among trillions of cells that wait, with a singular, unified desire, for your embrace—an embrace that dissolves the very layers of our being, transfiguring our finite corporeality into a resplendent eternity: the pure, sharp clarity of love.
So it was, and so it is told,
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