I need love.
But I think
When it comes, it won't
Be a lovely as my
Love would like it to be.
Beautiful but so
Understandably.
Quintessential
It is.
That magical sorcery
Between eye and hand
Even when worlds change
In between.
The eye looks on
To the hand
Which guides it
Along every single, possible
Path to a dream.
For the eye knows
What the hand points to.
Even if the hand points
Towards me.
I need that special hand
To show me the sunset
At a beach
Where there is a white table
Draped in pure Egyptian cotton
With white cups on it.
You should pour the sweet tea.
Ever so slowly.
And slowly.
And stir the tea
And point your hand
In the final direction.
To the unseen in the horizon.
Smoothly, I comply.
As you are simply,
In one body,
Myself.
