These days are short,
a chill descends around my neck
the sky is pigeon blue at the waking hour
when surfacing from tousled sleep
I live my poignant dreams of you.

We’re kissing in a violet haze
warmed by an inner summer sun
that fires this furnace blaze,
too white to touch too red to hold
the white and the red couple in my bed
melt to the alchemist’s molten gold .

The sky is pigeon blue,
it’s been a solar year
since you left me here
while leonine you stalked your prey
uncharted regions you possess
with the powerful eye of passionate lens,

I haven’t lived a single day
without wanting to be that elusive prey,
to concentrate your eye on the strong white lines
of a yielding thigh travel the contours of my face
with all the intensity you waste
on inanimate sand.

The chill invades my skin
blood red berries mark the arc
of ascending winter;this sky is paper thin
punctuated by sluggish snow,
I am pigeon blue
removed from such fascination ;

but my bed still holds
your heat of old
the white with the red
the molten gold,
flowing through my dreams
in anticipation .