Fantasy or regrets

He liked pearls
hammered gold hung from her earlobes
a silk cord with a single piece of amber
his own taste, the fine feel of a single rose
left in a basket untouched
rare scented like ripe wine.

He named things with simplicity
the impossible in a piece of sea glass
treasured in a brass bowl purchased
at a Syrian market.

Its contours, like her
made his hands hold her
like lacquer-ware.

He always expected some promise, disclosure
perhaps, surrender.  When thunder cracked he
heard his father's voice saying "what happens  to
us when we die?"

There are no regrets, no great gestures
he spoke simply with beautiful hands
tapered, thin and brown by the sun's grace.

It howled too long
that echo of her in his head
her thighs, lips that spoke
as Sappho must have.

The man, was cursed.

DC Ash
April 07