Mark-ed

Damp curls of dis-satisfaction brush across my forehead
An itch that inches under my skin
Bristling, persistent, it's hard to scratch.
Then I catch a softness in your eyes,
A half-light falling across the quiet melody of your skin,
And I forget the questions that cool sardonic silence
Asks me outside the cloister of moist kisses.

Winter's fingers strum the night's complacencies
As we lie dreaming of endless Summer,
Rain drumming on the in-breath...
Then, Sun soaked dew, remembering the soft grey morning mist...
(I feel it play against my skin, light velvet touch of new-born days...)
Calls forth a song from parting lips,
Unfurling buds, like tiny rainbows,
Burst quietly from beneath an evening's shadows.