Were I to distil my thoughts of late I dare say I'd pour them all quite completely into a kiss just to taste the Mediterranean and its ancient fruit all awash about your body essential oil upon my lips. But truth be told I could do so much more than this. For in the twilight of my waking hours when my strength begins to crash and it recedes to little more than a trickle my inner realm awakens my dreams they come alive and I am once again a man of metaphoric means. And you... whose gaze I cannot hold who has me staring at my boots and standing on my tongue you become the spark that ignites my world where I need no longer sequester my desire where shyness loses its grasp where I can reach out at last with brush in hand and make black the golden sun pushing it headlong into the oncoming night while I sit with you and wax lyrical on its demise on whims and foolish things on how we might commandeer a dragonfly a machine for us to fly to soar high into the sky towards the stars and higher still to that briefest moment when gravity simply forgets itself where night could never be more beautiful where constellations burn tiny fragments of their souls where earth is but a child in slumber discovering that darkness is heaven and we are angels silhouetted by the moon. Then... all at once before we think to catch our breath we begin to tumble head over heels into a twisting tailspin plummeting down through the ice crystals into the majesty of the frozen sky into the gravitas of life into the rising and the falling upon the most exquisite making of a dawn breaching the horizon tearing back a corner of my soul revealing all that glitters 'neath the gilded morning sun is nothing... ...but a dream I shared with you.
© Peter Smallwood