In the moments just before ink marks the page I know that words will fall short. For who could capture Her with mere paper and ink? But I am compelled to try hoping that my attempt, though clumsy and sophomoric, may in some small way reflect back the beauty that I have recognized in Her.
She is new to me, yet I have known her forever. Even so I have just begun to experience, to comprehend Her. She has captured my attention and stirred longings thought bruised beyond rising. It is now Her face I seek, Her call that I await. And in the between times I remember, I wonder, I muse.
I remember Her form, Her fragrance, the way She fits my body. I wonder how it is that she has so easily assumed this space in me. I muse about the meaning of this dance begun between she and I.
With Me she is familiar. She is bold but not brazen. Her confidence is that of assumed kinship and intimacy. How is it that She feels like Home? How is it that a raging passion and peaceful sweet rest can co-exist?
She is dainty yet powerful. I have watched a dull room energized at Her approach. Men straighten themselves in hopeful anticipation of Her glance or smile, grateful for any small attention. Women appraise Her, hoping for an ally, dreading competition with Her light.
Her smile is a magic thing. It is infectious and sensual. Her mouth shaped in anger is pouty and full beneath a furrowed brow.
Her movement is fluid and natural as a young doe. She is at ease and alert. She is finely wrought and utterly feminine, Her spirit at home in Her flesh.
To be near Her awakens slumbering passion. To be apart calls forth the Poet, the Bard. She now has claimed Her space, her place in His story. She is now set apart. Sleeping Beauty can now awaken, at least for the moments that the Poet can guard Her heart.
But harken to me! It is a dangerous thing to call forth the Poet and awaken the Princess. The story will unfold with many unseen twists and turns. Exquisite will be the rapture. Exquisite will be the torment. Yet that is the nature of the play. Both comedy and tragedy are required. Such things are always risky. But perhaps the Poet and his Muse can create between them a place where the songs can live.
