| There
is a book in
every nook and
every cranny of this room,
Brimming over with
poetry and prose
on any subject imaginable--
But after searching through
All of them
I have yet to find
the words that will
Wash away the image
Of your face--
it is ever before me in my dreams
and even when I am awake--
Especially when you are
here, tangible, your scent
Hanging in the air and in
my brain like deep red silk
just tossed into the air
And I catch it in my hands;
Does your skin feel like this?
I could never bring myself to
find out, not even with a
Reasonable excuse,
Like comfort after a close call;
I’m afraid this tightly controlled
British aloofness would crumble if
I touched your skin--
It’s hard enough to look
into your heart-melting eyes
and not take you into
My embrace--
Find out exactly what it
would be like to
feel your lips under mine,
Your hair in my fingers,
And ...
But the careful, staid librarian
takes over just in time
to remind me,
Like a shower of freezing water,
That a forty year old man
Cannot have these desires
for a sixteen year old girl...
Or the Watcher
for his Slayer.
Can I?
For you are a tantalizing
mixture of girl and woman--
You carry the fate of the world
In hands that still sometimes reach
for teddy bears--
And I know
that a secret part of you
Still sometimes reaches
For that soul which lives in shadow.
When you go there
You must go alone, into the night;
I cannot follow.
But for now,
during the day,
You are here, in my domain,
In this close comfort
where loyalty is
The only emotion which
I can show--
And you are mine.
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