His hand, a shaken, silent maze

Stills hearts, both mine, and in its grace

Recalls my soul, as to return:

For travel of this kind may burn

And sear, and puncture and procure

Those hardships that we can't endure.

And I, refusing to take heed,

Aware still of its dire need

Withhold my breath, and from his lips,

Those temples where we could eclipse,

Returns a smile and knowing sigh.

It is that sigh that, in reply,

Keeps me awake for days on end

While hoping that this sigh can mend.

I should have plunged: regrets aside,

I should have fought things that divide

I should have struggled with the sea

That forced regrets on him and me.

His hand, a shaken, silent maze

Strips down my armour then his gaze

Exceeds, by far, the skin and flesh

And in its reach, returns afresh...

It well may be that I have wronged

And maybe I have not belonged

Beneath the beauty of his hand

And maybe here, my thoughts will end...

-Unfinished-

-Artem