That Look

That look could kill a man
and melt his heart:
it comes but rarely;

imagined over candle-lit meal
after piecemeal day
working up to
your eyes:

your soft eyes
and endless hair,
trapping as spider silk
and flowing as time.

When you throw them down
and rise coquettish
it's like our eyes
are holding hands -
you know it's all about the eyes.

I've not had it yet -
not had
fulfillment of desire
or charcoal, heart, fire
or tongue, clamp, chain
or wings: clipp'd, heal'd.

I can imagine being there
with you,
though -
can see your soft, small hands;
your neutron star eyes;
sensitive iron;
peeled grace,
frayed,
revealing white light.

The truth is
you remind me of someone -
she's a great girl,
and you're not grown
but you're bigger than I know
and the more you're held
in time's tow
the more my hunger ties meld
and in iron forge
heart is smelt
and a rising is your name dealt.

That look could kill a man,
and bring despair full circle.
A new chapter, into which to hurtle.
A new void, into which to peer
at anguish at the throttle
and hearts at the bottle
and smiles on the incline...
Still, everything might be fine.