Caress
And in this bliss of night
we best know ourselves,
Solitude is comforting.
I write with all that is still good
in me, worthy, and it is
For her I am concentrating,
lost in her, lost in concentration.
Her step is so light; I have trained
myself to be silent, first
to avoid any living soul
that might torment me.
But her daintiness is natural still
and her own innocence makes me blush.
I sense her when that darling
little hand is soft on my
Shoulder. Startled instinct
courses through me, the need
To bolt. I stiffen, but she is
soft and gentle. No one has ever—
I turn to be certain it's really her,
(who else could it be?)
that she would deign to touch—
me—
her beauty displaces the stars;
the lights in her eyes put the colossal
universe away.
What is her look? Curiosity,
kindness, could it—affection—
Does she?—
Her bare hand against my face
thrills my skin from neck
to sternum. That touch is not
Cruel, this touch means something.
I'm afraid, I fear to—
She caresses me as if I were
Her love—O God, Christine,
Why do you bring me this close—?
I cannot look at her.
I brace. Her hand is still against
my cheek. Can she be charmed by me?
Does she accept me for who I am?
Has my music—?
O God, my love, my light,
don't move away, let this moment
endure forever. Let her love
me, please. Just—if—
She moves to the mask—she
Moves to caress it—can she
Really accept—?
O God, not this.
