BB Grey–musings

“Lovers don’t finally meet somewhere. They’re in each other all along.” — Rumi

In fields of wheat spun gold at harvest’s crest,
as storm-blue skies, speckled with grey,
spill rain like rose petals—nude and pink—
against ivory clay, smooth, untouched,
waiting for the weight of oil and pastel,
for the whisper of charcoal, for colors in between.

A stroke of the brush, a sigh in the dark—
we laugh now for all the nights we wept,
alone, before we knew what dreaming could be.
Another stroke—skin remembers—
lovers’ touch hovers,
fire spills from passion within,
a red wine blush, caged, set free—akin to chagrin.

Did I stir you, tangled in white sheets,
draped over the ink of night?
Was I your answered succor,
or do you dream still,
satiated, yet apart from my will?