Let me see your beauty when the witnesses are gone
Let me feel you moving like they do in Babylon.
Dance Me To The End of Love. Leonard Cohen
When I was young, you were a dream not tasted.
Now you rest here thin and savory
with hair so fine it flies and skin so smooth
that marble cracks from envy. Those eyes. Those eyes.
I long to love again as I once loved. To love
so longitudinal, protracted and intuitive that self
fuses into self and magic wraps the sweating soul
in twisted sheets. I want to look again
on sleeping face and know the triumph of the body.
Well. Well. I stroke your cheek.
Lines etch my forehead, and my face
is scored by age. Veins protrude
from arms and hands, and fingers bend
in pain from winter. So,
I tell you only what I know:
I am dead,
and I lie.