Lines of Her Frame

It was like having the weight of oceans slam down upon me
every time she entered and brought her golden presence into a room.

She was written like a well-versed tragedy,
poignant to a tautened effect.
A single line that lingered, like the intoxicating wafting of a fine perfume.
And a paradox:
a blade slipped in ever so gently between the folds of heart-flesh,
terminated with a kiss of fire and pulsing desire.

The nebular machinery within her—the aeons-old enigma—
was a rapture, biblical like the parting of the Red Sea.
And yet it was from aimless wandering to glad enslavement that I went.

Falling deep into the encasing moments with her—:
it took me far away from the world and the inessential.

The contours and shapes that made her up,
the lines of her frame, they anchored me to her;
they embedded her in my soul and my form.

Such that the flight of my unsettled mind had finally come to an end.

M.M. — 23-Feb-2015