His Eyes Are Targets When He Dissects

His eyes are targets when he dissects--
hot, beaming gaze, slowly stripping my soul.
Gravitational pull--beyond my control,
intoxicated, I drown in his effect.


Dazed, his velvet words weave fog in my mind.
His gentle touch leaves echoes in its wake;
its memory--cherished, a keepsake,
collecting winks of kindness, all underlined.


For fear is the destroyer of love,
a reminder--in times his look makes me shiver,
past violence, leaving its violet mark.


For deception can clip the winged dove,
masked by what the good delivers,
blinded, even when his fists make their arc.