Love and Filth

There’s something in the way she moves,

The Beatles said it best, I know.

She tiptoes, slides, and glides like air

Across the hillside, stealing close.

 

I never touch her, though I could,

Afraid she’d pass through like a ghost;

My hand not worthy for her flesh,

Her blushing laugh, those fleeting notes.

 

I cannot help feel like a beast,

I am unclean, I must have claws,

Compared to her and her finesse

With simple touch, and quiet words.

 

But sometimes I take hope in that

She can’t be flawless as she seems.

No human can transcend her place,

Flawless outside my memories.

 

So past those short, blonde wings of hair

I hope there lays a need to hurt

Or to deceive, something to prove

She’s made of flesh, and not of glass.

 

If there is filth in her bright soul,

I’d deeply love to dig it out,

And just to see it in my palms,

She could be mine, I have no doubt.