mervin

Here is my longing.
The tilted cup,
it is filled and runs empty,
it is filled and runs ...
I am its history.
Here is my longing.
I am the legend of my desire,
enduring sine, wave after wave.
And memory too poor to recall touch
preserves what, but sign, and symbol.
Years filed in code to be tapped,
released by what?

You come to me and speak, your words evoke the familiar,
your body is much the same after time,
your face much the same.
I remember my longing, the tilted cup.
The past comes gentled, void of sound or touch.
I remeber your body and it means nothing.
The icon is your mouth: the curved, full, lips.
They are pleasure, and need and denial
to remain in soft focus at memory's edge,
to sip at the verge of my longings cup.
I remember your mouth.