Alabaster (Poetry)

His face in the moonlight was noble and handsome
those features unweathered — his strength set in stone
the limbs of an athlete in perfect proportion
portrayed as a hero — his story unknown.

His gaze so entranced me I froze like a statue
we stared at each other — eyes locked in a dream
that silvered us over — sheer lunacy holding
the moment unmoveable — iced like a stream.

A cloud crossed the moon and a shiver released me
I dared to reach out — let my hand graze his skin
and the smooth surface warmed as though life had been kindled
and his blush found the shadows to hide himself in.

And was there a pulse buried deep in those layers —
a flutter awakened by one gentle touch?
I gasped with the wonder — leaned closer and listened
for breath — had pure fancy imagined too much?

But no! — Like a steady far-echoing rhythm
his heart matched the music that stirred in my own —
the overture soft but impassioned and growing —
such whispers of romance cut clear to the bone.

And there — in that garden one midsummer midnight
we waltzed to a symphony hummed by the breeze
and nobody witnessed our strange combination
our kisses encrypted by secretive trees.

That interlude shines — whether truth or illusion —
bright in my memory — undimmed by time
passing so swiftly — love’s brilliant delusion
remains ever-magical — quietly sublime.

’Though the garden has vanished long-since with his figure
that glowed in the moonlight like marble carved fresh
I still dream of him often — lay claim as his maker —
anonymous stone those few moments made flesh...

For somewhere he’s waiting — his spirit is winging
from realms that exist on the edges of sleep
where whiteness takes shape — alabaster’s chill beauty
repeats the rash promise no angel can keep.