As I'm staring 
at eyes like melting obsidian, 
a soft tingling 
silently soars across my skin. 
Like the tickle left in the wake 
of a fickle but downy feather, 
or perhaps, if was just the rake 
of Cupid attaching his tether. 
I wish my fingers could dance 
across that ebony web, her hair, 
like a spider taking stance, 
to defend his beloved lair. 
Or that they would turn one beautiful cheek, 
its surface, trace, 
as I took an intensely delightful peek, 
into her face. 
I wish my ears, her laugh, would always hear, 
melodious,  bell tinkling; 
its sounds so beautiful and sparkling clear, 
of happiness, a sprinkling. 
And I wish that she was here, 
always I want her in sight, 
that face, to me, so dear, 
every day and every night. 
Oh, if only I could keep her, 
the work of an artist of infinite skill; 
even though I may never reach her, 
I'm crazy about her, still. 
But all of these are fantasies, 
flashing every time I see her eyes, 
simply imagined opportunities; 
Love's sorceries are pretty, little lies. 

April 1, 2, & 3, 1985