I am no longer ashamed
to admit it, not even to myself:
I have slept at your feet
when time and space permitted.
I have inhaled the scent
of your leather-backed chair,
shed tears on your seat,
and tenderly smiled
at the way you ruffle your hair.
Honestly.
I am no longer ashamed of
this love I feel or of the
mindless trust I bear you.
It’s not you, the married man,
whose closeness I thus crave
and care for and seem to relish
like a cool sip of air or quenching drink
of water. It’s the light that shines in you.
It’s the light that has drawn me to you.
Would that I burnt and fell dead to the
floor, to once get so close to the fire – and
then, never more!
But as yet, I quaver before the enormity
of the task. Greatly overwrought by
imagination, I’m sure.
Still, you daunt me with your recklessness,
while I grow more and more aware of my fear.
Will I have the courage to draw so near?
Love seeking kin. Berlin
