Soft resistance.

Opening the door, still wet,

Smooth, gentle and disarming beauty.

Apologetic of your image and of your effect.

You smiled downcast in the street noise,

A perfect display of your soft resistance,

To the stories that make you look away so often.

 

Even after attempts to extinguish,

Through the slow rust of being pushed outside yourself,

You forged an outlet in raw talent.

I hear you.

 

I dared to suggest in tongue what surrender could mean for you.

Arching in seductive apprehension,

You folded in right angles across my line of sight.

Holding your eyes in mine,

Was the most tender rescue mission available to us.

A lesson in intimacy that cares little about where we came from,

And everything about what we deserve.

And you deserve more than you’ve been bound.

 

I did what I could in twenty five minutes.

Part wished your hands could be more creative,

But a familiar alloy.

I understood.

On leaving, whispered into your eyes – even pleaded,

That you knew your right to pleasure,

That you were allowed.

 

Afterwards, I spent the whole day dreaming,

With eyes alive in vital orange,

That we’d have that moment again.

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Patterns.

The struggle is found in the fine detail of the string.

 

Beautiful things mutate,

Becoming formidable decorations,

Through the lifetime twisting,

Of thought, to fractal, to armor.

 

Not just desirable, but glamorised,

An idolatry of missing the mark,

Early wounds,

Become the full retail package.

Organising as the grain of wood,

And then the floor of theater.

 

The fine surf of stained glass,

delimiting prism,

Projects shadow as form and cycle,

And light as commodity.

 

Redemption is only through exposure,

Of the inside out.

Grandeur reduced,

The gilding,

Of a mirror to live by,

That keeps promise,

Every day.