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Blame the ever adding days
or
Blame eyes too knowing
but
Blame stealthy morning light
Across your sleeping face
Illuminating you
you illuminating
it
Illuminating me
to
You
which caused me
to
Catch my breath
Like the day
I first saw you
There you were'¦
again
Lethal desires rippled across
Years
Nineteen of them
I think
But blame
me
for forgetting
for losing sight
for not seeing
You
Such a shame my own
all mine
For then I remembered
I tell you
I love you
But not
that
I want you'¦
or
That you stop my heart
Clogging it
with desires carnal
But
you do'¦
Thank a stealthy morning light
For reminding
what
I should
let you know
More often than
This.
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I don't normally go for love poems, but this one is exceptional. I equate the light to being an epifamy (sp). And, like all epifamy's are private and unsean by others. And, like all long relationships, she will see only the surface of your love when she is awake, but the deepest part of your love is only revealed when she is sleaping. (I hope I got that right. Poetry is so subjective sometimes :-)
This is like a chant, a mumbling to oneself in an alley where the bricks dream of evergreens instead of the moss enslaving their form. In other words, this is good.
