i feel your arms around me and i embrace youyour head pressed against my chestflecks of your makeup brush onto my shirti could care less if my shirt bears the stainsyou feel unwell but i feel at peace holding you for the first timei want you to feel better and the same i don't want you to leaveas you press against my torso with your arms around my backi gently hold you feeling the curvature of your lower backyour hair brushing over my arm the smell of you so particulari've never experienced this before i've never experienced you beforeeven as the moment ends and you recover enough to stand aloneit never ends for me still playing now as i remember you on that night
The scorching heat.The chafing winds.The grinding sands.The rushing of a river.A single drop, the water of worlds.A gentle mist of wind.A softness of skin.A burning of strain.Pool the blood, the source of life.Carving of flesh.Breaking of bone.Living of death.To suffer and to solace, both to live and to die.
Jolt of market-carts ;Steady drip of horses' hoofs on hard pavement ;A black sky lacquered over with blueness,And the lights of Battersea BridgePricking pale in the dawn.The beautiful hours are passingAnd still you sleep !Tired heart of my joy.Incurved upon your dreams.Will the day come before you have opened to me ?
One Life of so much Consequence!Yet I -- for it -- would pay --My Soul's entire income --In ceaseless -- salary --One Pearl -- to me -- so signal --That I would instant dive --Although -- I knew -- to take it --Would cost me -- just a life!The Sea is full -- I know it!That -- does not blur my Gem!It burns -- distinct from all the row --Intact -- in Diadem!The life is thick -- I know it!Yet -- not so dense a crowd --But Monarchs -- are perceptible --Far down the dustiest Road!
Come, my Celia, let us proveWhile we may the sports of love;Time will not be ours forever,He at length our good will sever.Spend not then his gifts in vain;Suns that set may rise again,But if once we lose this light,'Tis with us perpetual night.Why should we defer our joys?Fame and rumour are but toys.Cannot we delude the eyesOf a few poor household spies?Or his easier ears beguile,So removed by our wile?'Tis no sin love's fruits to steal;But the sweet theft to reveal,