by kholinar

As saints of old,
or those carved in church nooks
my eyes gaze over to you
and wonder at your form,
your abrupt turning
to everything that ‘waits your hand
and the way you close and seal a book
with a lingering sigh

And I must move to capture
the riddle in your pause
And I know I won’t quite catch it
before you find a cause

Still I crawl over to collect
the remnants of that stillness
and whisper thrice my willingness
to bare your arms of business
to kiss the naked skin so flushed
to let it feel respite

but like the bridge that
Sin and Death Built sprawling
to squirming Satan outside the Garden
I offer no sweetened end
only transport and battles
in a war we cannot win