She was my reason to breathe,
My red rose in a sea of dead leaves.
It is the heart that breaks
And the soul that grieves,
When subtle betrayal you can’t see.
Still, sometimes I hold onto her in my dreams,
And tell myself to just breathe,
Retracing her steps
In the moments right before she left.
I let go of the anger that I kept —
Sitting in the place that she slept,
It was after she walked out, that I wept.
Sade – I Never Thought I’d See the Day
Use my heart as a blank canvas
and let love guide your hands
to paint beautiful pictures.
After you finish, write your name
indelibly on me, so the world
will know that I am yours.
I am not a perfect canvas,
for I am flawed,
yet your loving brushes
have already filled me
with gorgeous backdrops
and vibrant colors;
You take your time,
and everyday, you paint a little more
in passionate patience.
Your devotion is something to behold;
There is beauty in the strokes
of your wrists alone.
After you exhibit me, take me home;
Hold me close to you,
and make me your own.
In weeping and torment love is the only reprieve;
The heart is heavy with sorrow,
But a simple kiss allows the soul to breath.
If only for a few minutes there is beautiful stillness,
Wrapped in sweet caress.
In a passionate kiss there falls a calmness,
That words could never express.
It is the cure for unending agony and loneliness.
Love, it is the medicine that overcomes deep sadness
And floods warm light into cold perpetual darkness.
The compositions of my life are arranged in three passionate movements.
The orchestra plays beautifully; the lead violinist weeps with tears,
Falling on the varnished wood and the strings of his instrument.
After the performance, in stillness the crowd sits,
And after a long pause, they stand and clap to break their silence.
Heaven’s Poet Laureate writes sonnets that tell of agony, love, and death;
And of how he turned his face and wept when she took her last breath.
It was three words she spoke before she left,
And a child went home and stood in the room where she slept,
To catch her aura, and to take a part of her to place in his heart,
Where until this day it is protected and kept.
The orchestra plays again; the first movement — a sonata.
At the end, the lead violinist bows with tears
And blows a kiss as he remembers her.
Erotic shadows move in silent ecstasy.
If only walls could speak and tell of what they see.
White lights highlight motions of passion;
The figures on the wall move fluidly,
As if in a coordinated ballet of sensuality.
In rhythmic fashion they move fast, and then slowly;
If only walls could hear the exchanges of intimate whispers
And untamed screams of ecstasy—
Still, they keep long records of unrestricted pleasure
Of lovers in secret diaries.
It’s never over, even after the last passionate breaths are breathed,
Even after the last words in ecstasy are uninhibitedly screamed;
You linger on me; the taste of you, a constant reminder of intense intimacy.
I inhale you deeply, waiting to exhale, right up until I burst at the seams,
And then again, and again, and again, and again.
I remember the most sensual moments, and then I store them away for later replay;
The canvas of my mind a willing recipient of the beautiful pictures that you paint.
Take me in your rapture and hold me there for an eternity,
Let me dwell in unfettered sensuality and contemplate your mystery.
The scent of your perfume heightens my senses when you kiss me,
And euphoria takes over in primal carnality.
Blue silk falls away from your shimmering body so easily;
Your long curls, become waterfalls over erotic contours.
I must please you. Every inch of your body must be accounted for.
In euphoric tones I hear you speak to me;
In intimate whispers you let go,
And reveal your long hidden intricacies.
In your loud passionate release,
You cannot lie.
Your intensity immerses me in the depths of you.
I bathe in the sounds of your ecstasy.
I Listen intently, to capture the rare pieces of you;
My souls screams.
You intrigue me in mystery.
I adore you in wonderful simplicity;
Like when your hair is pulled up as you lather yourself gracefully,
Or how your blue silk robe seductively moves against your body.
In my love for you, I give you all that is within me.
The scent of your perfume is floral and heavenly.
To capture your essence, I kiss you,
And hold onto you tightly.
Oh the emotions that surface
when affectionate fingers
caress still faces in memorable pictures.
Scented candles are lit; tears run after heartfelt kisses.
She lies down, her hair sprawled on white linen in darkness.
If only the dead could hear beautiful utterances
and loving whispers.
2 AM eyes look up and down the block; only the fire from a glass pipe can be seen. After the last inhale, the blue flame disappears like magic. Like vampires they retreat into pitch darkness. High rise buildings tower over women of the night with torn stockings. The bitter cold outside combined with strong cigarette smoke, causes redness of the eyes. An old man drinks a bottle of beer, and in-between his raspy lament he cries. The 2 train stops and continues on its way to 149th street. The homeless seek warmth in building hallways so they can sleep. Children of the night in crowded bedrooms from tiny eyes peep. Snow starts to fall and covers all like a white shawl. Heroin addicts inject black tar that would make the devil crawl. Empty buses roll down White Plains road with lights off in ghostlike form. A hole–in–the–wall bar offers a strange silence with unfriendly faces that are listless. The darkness stalks from under the subway overpass; the sound of old train tracks are haunting. Snow keeps falling.
Large rats move in the shadows undeterred and stake their claim. A woman talks to herself loudly, because she is in pain. The wind that blows on the train platforms chills the bones; it is cold. Tired eyes cast off the thousand yard star. Eyes gaze at the lights of an approaching train and are caught in the glare. The gritty winters are harsh, and even the poor find a way to have at least one decent coat to wear. The snow that falls over the Bronx River with bordering trees, makes it look like a winter wonderland. A white pigeon sits atop of an old Lower Manhattan street light. Lady Liberty stands still over New York Harbor with a torch in her hand.
The scent of her is so familiar;
A particularly wonderful French perfume
Gracefully sprayed over a matching vintage dusting powder.
Bath oils cause her soft skin to shimmer;
A deep inhale.
A passionate kiss.
Sweet words are spoken from passionate lips.
A seductive whisper;
The heart beats faster.
Another kiss,
Then 3 AM euphoria.
Intimate Compositions 