I am not a passionate person,
Or so I would tell you.
My cheeks blush at the thought of being kissed,
And physical affections are often turned away,
Feeling desire for someone is like a new language,
And I had little want to understand it.
No,
I am not a passionate person in the way most would believe.
But I am a passionate person.
Give my heart an emotion,
and my mouth will make it known.
Flood me in kisses,
and my hands will go to work on paper.
Writing my love for you is a fire,
It's flames devour your every action,
For I may not make myself known when it comes to body language.
But in the written word,
you will never live a day to question how my soul aches to show its affection.

.
When you caught my wandering eye,
love was a small word to hide behind,
an improper play seen through a diaphanous veil.
There was a new star in the sky, a mint room,
still searching for a lost dream.
I sit and watch a world die, and another take its place,
a kaleidoscope colander, as silence has its throat cut
with delicate skeletal lace and a face of porcelain.

A whisper to the zephyrs of second glance
echoing through the histories of the future,
a plea from a roving orb like a mute scream.
Did you hear me talking to the wind
where the wild things grow, recapturing misty joys.
As the Horns of Cernunnos reflect the primal stag
and the cusp of the Moon vibrates a soliloquy,
you caught my wandering eye.


© Pagan Paul (17/08/17)

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