AN: This actually started as a Christmas present for trascendenza. She asked me to write her a poem focusing on the senses. Happy belated Christmas!
Disclaimer: The characters and their motivations are not mine, but Stephenie Meyers'.
Of The Tree
"The Tree of Knowledge grew fast by, Knowledge of Good bought dear by knowing ill." John Milton
The light, so dark
Confuses my eyes
Blurs his beauty
Breaks my gaze,
My eyes flitting
From nape to eyes. I'm
Learning to envelop the whole.
The scent, too much
Like dusk in spring
Where flowers crave
The open air and pour
Their nectar out to God
So I, upon receiving
Know I was not meant to know the smell.
He speaks, my name
Upon his lips seems
An ancient shrine
Who speaks to grass.
The words he says are
Soft, too smooth, and I
Start, surprised to see I comprehend them.
His touch: cold fingers
Press my lips,
Stroke down my cheek,
Across my brow.
Nothing cold has
Been so warm.
Blood rushes to the skin he's left behind.
At last, he leans,
Takes careful stock,
To judge the distance
And resolve.
His eyes ignite
To amber flame.
His lips part on mine and--