BB Grey–musings

Do you dream, my love,
in hues of wheat and gold,
a harvest ripe and radiant,
glowing beneath storm-blue skies—
their vastness flecked with gray,
a tempest’s tender prelude?

I see you,
rain-rose petals, nude and pink,
scattered soft against the ivory silk
of your skin—smooth as clay,
unmarred, awaiting the artist’s hand.
A canvas alive,
you beckon my brush,
strokes bold and delicate—
oil pastels in saffron and jade,
charcoals smudged with shadows
and every shade between.

One stroke, and laughter spills,
a golden thread unwinding
through every tear we shed alone,
before our souls entwined,
before dreaming dared to bloom so free.
Another stroke, and we are lovers—
my touch hovers,
a trembling flame above your skin,
fire pouring from the well within,
a red-wine blush ignites,
contained, then unleashed,
a sweet chagrin trembling in its wake.

Did I stir you, my muse,
tangled in white sheets
that drape like moonlight
over the velvet black of night?
Your breath, a whispered succor,
rises soft—
or do you linger still in dreams,
satiated, full,
beyond the reach of my yearning will?

I wonder,
gazing at this masterpiece of you,
if your slumber paints
the same wild gallery I see—
a dance of color and shadow,
passion’s vivid sweep,
where we are both the art
and the dreaming hand that dares to trace it.
Do you dream, my love,
as I dream of you now—
naked, boundless,
a canvas eternal,
suspended in this quiet night?