That Sunday Morning

You lie in my arms and look into my closed eyes

Trying to define the lapse of understanding

How can you form words to describe paradise?

And how can you feed flesh that is so demanding?

I hear the questions you ask with our mouth fully closed

Lips are now bare its rich colors I hungrily swallowed

Our passion an ocean that ebbs and flows

Paths through darkness and drought our souls willfully followed

We stare into the night counting tiles on the ceiling

Trying to give reasons for questions unanswered

How can words envelope what we are feeling?

And how can you hear the lyrics if you are a dancer?
I hear the questions you ask as you pretend to sleep

Hair undone and clothes carpeting chairs and on the floor

Our ecstasy a process to sow and reap

Paths of bliss that nerves and flesh treasure and adore

You lay next to me and I breathe your breath

Trying to taste the thoughts that you hide in fear

How can words define the rise and death?

And how can lips speak inside here?