The Falling

If I were to look up and see the skies at night, I know I’d see the stars as I see you.
No true name – no true knowledge; just a presence and a face: a memory without a trace.
It seems, somehow, despite all manner of reason that I know in my bones,
like a painter knows their paints,
like a good priest knows their saints,
like a master fencer knows their feints,
that in your eyes lays the light of all the stars at night – or that at, the very least,
it seems to me that your beauty;
is a rarity,
and how is that not something to adore?
Should I ignore this? How I feel? For some reason, I feel as if I should.
I know not what it is. I am afraid of it – of this unknown?
Though more to a point: why? Why? Why is it you? Why not any other?
Surely there are a myriad of people for whom I could feel this way instead.
What is it about you that should be so fearsome?
Why is it that I think of you like a florist would a bouquet made of a universe of light;
and yet my every glance,
averts from you at the chance,
that you would know the object of my sight?
I’m afraid. I know this.
Though of what, to me, is of complete amiss.
Though it’s strong enough to keep from telling you that when I see you, I feel what might just be bliss.

If one were to stretch a plain of desert -
from one end of this universe to the other, if given enough time to do so, I would tread it -
just to prove it could be done.
But dare not ask of me to speak in words like the rain speaks in drips on the petals of a flower amidst the pouring of a summer shower -
that I am to find myself encapsulated by the felling of me...
due to your beauty.
Your unmatched, ravenous, beauteous, glow -
that does my heartbeat slow.

Dare not ask -
that my feelings, like a clock rewound by time, be unspun -
and sung in tailored voice unto you the matter of this moment being -
that this: this is the falling.

And I want no part in it.