After “The Kiss” by Gustav Klimt
Do not ask me why I close my eyes
as his golden warmth encircles me.
Do not tell me how my fingertips tremble
where they touch him,
tucked around his throat.
Do not look too long at the shoulder I bared
while unearthing all my silent cares,
which somehow he made bloom.
Do not let the day come too soon.
Do not say that
you would not linger too
longing to open your eyes,
keeping them closed
to hide a hue
you cannot hold.
Do you sense the cold,
or feel how it is only
your own fingers wrapping around
your careworn chest?
Can you look at the perfect stems
and not notice your soul’s undress?
Do you see the rest?
When he gathers the blossoms that grew,
do you think he will give them to you?
Yet, do not forget,
dear watchful friend,
when he thanks us
for watering them so well:
do not tell him that we fell.
