What fated look,
In ill-abashed sympathy
Causes the restlessness between us?

The caress of the frill,
Your hand that crosses mine, too warm
Descends into coldness at the mutter of a line

Dismissed to your room,
Restless, you think of me
Staring at the nakedness of the angel in oil

Thus I descend: my truth,
Pressed upon thine lips
A stillness in wait, a promise too certain to unfold

The final clutch. Your fingers grazing mine
Plead for a breath,
The latitude of a kiss.