Your arms flood my back,
you do nothing but hold me in them,
taking me to heights unachievable on my own,
and not a soul around:
only a tutu – a blanket – over the two of us.
No cuts, no edits, nowhere to hide,
no idea where or when we are,
only the unedited warmth
from your feather-light fingers,
they land in my hair like crusaders
who just returned safely
from battles –
crusaders or ballet dancers? –
traceless, semi-audible and still.
What is left unkissed
quickens my dreams and blood,
your arms are gold and pearls,
your arm are swards,
your samurai’s control
gives way to me in my sleepscape
in which I realise my cravings for danger,
for immediacy, for the ballet.
one must be still.
one must sleep
in samurai’s arms.
Ichi-go ichi-e –
one encounter, one stop.