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.