The breeze of my hand through your dark hair
is the wind off the black and white ocean,
is the piano crescendo under the close up on the
first meeting of the lips that rise cataclysmic
to trap all else in their grip.

II.

The sweep of my fingertips over your skin
is the rustle of leaves in the evergreen forest
that must be forged to rescue the lover,
that must be traveled to prove the devotion
that binds one to the other.

III.

For mine is the longing of the protagonist,
the one in the floor length Fisher fur
who gesticulates wildly, darling I love you.
Darling, I love you. Here is my motion.
Mine is the longing.