We Were Discussing Erotica
Your pale face seen through a glass
of Rosea, lips painted,
gashed scarlet by the dumbstruck songs
of your blood.
Your eyes are a cosmic darkness
yet as bright as Samurai swords,
blades that piece both my mind
and yours.
We were discussing erotica,
how freeing it was to be bound,
how the flimsy drapes of black on white
or white on black can make the skin glow
like the soul of a virgin.
Such choreographed passions
should be a dance upon a slow fuse,
for the flash of the fire itself
is but a brief sun-flare,
and quickly
leads to meaningless words of love,
or the gagged silence of separation.
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