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;

Iím afraid this tightly controlled
British aloofness would crumble if
   I touched your skin--

Itís 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.