They told me not to touch
The masterpieces, “priceless” they
Told me, yet how could I resist
Tracing the softness of your skin
And staining my fingers with sweet
Assurances of your reality?
To keep you at arm’s length is
Such a chore when all I want is
To smother myself in your
Intrinsic curves and wilderness
Of possibilities yet unmentioned
Hidden in the subtlties of texture
Unrefined, though pure.
Yet as I reach myself out, my hand
Yields to barriers unseen and
Falters in its ability to console
The memories underlying surface
Tensions that break out in waves
On the canvas of your soul.
You fear me and that I understand
For I lack the delicate fingers and
Intuition to understand the
Preservation and construction
Of such an artistic expression.
Moonlit Poetry 