he said that I am ravishing

that I would make a bishop kick through a stained-glass window

that he wanted to kiss every single freckle on his way up my arm to my limpid green pools

and I am enchanted

but he keeps me waiting,

waiting

maybe because he feels that I am still searching

and maybe he is right

and yet, this man

this man with his romance, controlled passion, mystery and ability to hold me without touch

this man may just sustain me

write a new lexicon that seeks to define me

a vocabulary that finds new ways into me

perhaps even rewrite me into a woman who could be described as satisfied

she could have been more convincing

more willowy or fey

but, still, her soul was expensive to keep

and in its need for poetry and favorable attention and beauty and the brush of hard fingers and abandon

she was a woman: a bruise, a promise, a story and a song

rather than some delicate creature archly situated at the bar of that night’s choosing