Come to me
As you are without
The things others expect
The clever words, the lined eyes
The perfumed breasts, the coloured lips.
And let me simply hold you
Simply to adore you, inch by beautiful inch.
Here a cut, long forgotten: does it still hurt?
Here a bead of sweat: are you warm already?
Here a gentle rise leading to a valley: do I explore that so soon?
Here is skin as it should be seen
Warm, sheened olive, alive
Under my trailing hands.
But all I want to do I find,
Is to hear you say: you are mine, you, are mine.
Clouds over the sea,
like grey breast of pelican
settling over a vast nest.
To be a brush stroke
on a painting of a bride,
would I choose to be
a splash of red cinnabar
or pale ochre?
Covering her up, hiding all anxious thought?
Or be the pale untouched skin on her arms, back and breasts?
I would want to be all of those,
sooth her mind
telling her to be unafraid,
telling her about the caged bird that flew.
It can happen, you see;
I have done it myself.
Be a brush that is loaded with colour, happiness or pain
but be yourself. Hold the brush in your hand,
then little by little
you will see light touching the dark
little by little
you find people looking to you
asking for your strokes to be added
to the canvas that is them.