Reborn as a tailor

[barneythebear]

Where was I born?
I was asked by a form.
My reply, of no use to the form, consisted of:
“I was born in your arms.”

When were you born?
A simple date would do.
My reply, of no use to the questioner, was:
“I was born the day you loved me.”

Then you were born not as a baby?
Ironic, possibly, this addendum.
“No,” I replied.
“I was a middle-aged chrysalis.”

Ah, then, you’re a social butterfly...
A personification of received bull****?
Some question this, rhetorical, certainly, in its perception.
“Probably,” I admit. Then pause. “Except, that it’s true.”

For when I consider that exquisite longing,
The seeming endless space
As we look into each other’s life
Then lean into each other’s face.

This sort of truth will fit me well.
A truth that fits snug round my heart.
A bespoke truth that skirts nothing
And suits my pledge. To you.

[barneythebear]

Suggestion hinted, rumbling, in your voice,
Oblique, off centre, potent on its tongue.
Your words, a luscious lexicon of choice,
Seduce the craving dreams I writhe among.

Your eye which artfully obscures a smile
Can feeble tissue wring from toughened hull.
My body’s wisdom, lifely honed, yet while
It frets for merest glimpse of you, is dull.

And then behind that eye, the fount which forms
Your thoughts, which, given birth and said aloud
Are cut adrift, distilled, and while still warm,
Disseminate as soughs within a cloud.

And at your core with each vivacious beat,
Where pumping blood and whispered promise meet.