Twilight Of Evening Poem by Diana Newsome

It is the gracefulness in his hands
the sing song way he torches each verse
his smooth, velvety, baritone voice
vibrating, skipping across the oasis of my soul.

Listening intently in the twilight of evening
I feel he is singing to me with a hunger in his voice
uttering his allegence...
with each note, with each locution.

I imagine it is me whom he is playing...
feeling the beauty of his elicit admiration
the hot breath of every note, laced with eagerness
fingers grazing the small of my back.

Believing with every fiber of my being
that I am the exotic instrument pressed against his body;
pressed between the pages of his memory
not the manifestations or the remains of some forgotten evening.

Nestling against the night sky, I sigh
drinking in the fertile fantasy
that a kernel of his heart
might truly belong to me.


Copyright @12/09/2005