There’s a river in France called Touch…
I’d hoped to have seen you there with your hands spread
Memories of you & I skipping town, dodging clotheslines with the pant legs
Your hair kept like rose vines with the strands red
The nights we’d toast wine but demand less
Life was so fine. Our souls scribed in the grand nest.
Water on the coastlines where the land met
The cold, vibrant, entranced depths
We sat on park benches like old timers – I glanced left
You were the jewel of my eye, a gold mine that enhanced flesh
laying like two tigers on sand crests
Plaisance-du-Touch…
The name of a commune; the moniker also applied to you
Pleasant to touch, we nestled in the hunkered down bayou blues
Sighing too, tired of the city and societals
Seeking asylum in the plentiful petals, reciting cues
Watching the sugary sweat gliding off my perspired muse
I got an eye-full while the Eiffel loomed
An idol wolf knows how the lion moves
Their shared grace distracts them from this ensnared place, & its violent truths
He said to her, “You can be my girl. I’d reside in you.”
“We should go where the tone of the forest can be heard.”
“I’d consider that as something really nice to do.”
A coo sticks to the bark more than love notes would
repertoires in the swaying black trees
King Thutmose of the snub-nosed wood
Multi-cellular tea leaves floating in a quagmire
“I won’t get entangled with you until we reach the zenith of the forest.”
Always was a bad liar. Heart pianist with a bag pipe.
As the harpies danced about with flashlights
Looking for us
Our mouths locked onto pulsing, orange nectarines – temporary bliss?
sending out search parties for the scent of that buried kiss
Cherry lips, sexual linguistics. Subtle chemical emissions
I leapt, merely at the image of the dark wolf pressed into your midriff
Delectable envisionment, your body prone, prepping for a visit
Voice so ethereal, an ecstasy ellipsis…
I’d feel as though I was entering Olympus
You could ride Aphrodite’s chariot – I’d measure the intrinsics
Many dream of dipping into the waters we waded through
Our spirit animals harnessing ‘sabertooth’
Mostly because our prehistoric appetites are broad and insatiable
The next morning, the phrases stewed
still traces on our tongues of the balm from the fragrant fumes
Unsure of how long I was tasting you
What if we ate all of the nectar, saved none for the hummingbirds,
and left them with nothing for sustenance but a dozen worms?
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Erik Moshe is an aspiring lyricist from Hollywood, Florida. His book shelf may get dusty at times, but he finds it okay, since the universe is dusty and it can be quite eventful. He recently finished a poetry collection about robotics and the future. Find him at TheCentersphere.yolasite.com where he weaves words in unconventional, bizarre fashion.
