I do not mean to compliment you
Only on your physical appearance.
There are so many other ways
That I could specify how great you are.
A snow flake dances in the wind,
Pure, innocent, magnificent and small.
It flutters there or here beside me
Acting as a muse for my pen
Or a distraction from a world of frustrations.
For no reason but their own
My crystallized companion turns to face me,
Landing upon my lips to melt.
Or it should choose to take to folly,
Dancing again past my eyes.
Not only do I see it there, but feel it tambien.
Where hopes are dreams and spirits jolly,
I would have the moment’s consideration again,
If only for a moment to reside there or here
Where the snow flake warmed my heart.
The pleasures I feel are not to be felt
With fingers or lips or the flesh of this body.
These pleasures flow
Far deeper than the bloodlines go.
These pleasures excite
Far stronger than our joint hands might alone.
Alone this body is only flesh.
Without the passion that flows between us
There are only empty hands:
Hands that hold hands,
But do not feel their warmth.