The Catch

The poetry of your body captivates me like the wings of a butterfly. Could I catch you? I lie here motionless, watching you flutter carelessly about the room. Chaos in its most elegant form. For hours I watch you, floating in your element, naked and unashamed. What beauty. And then, extraordinarily, you land just inches away from me. My hand reaches out for a chance to touch you, as it elevates my curious senses. Your skin as soft as a lamb in her shepherd's arms. Your eyes deep as a dying man. And your breath faintly singing like a song of the siren. I am paralyzed by your natural seduction. Intoxicated by your allure. And then, like the ever-changing wind, you fly away again. And I return to observing you float around the passion-stained room. And it is at that moment it becomes apparent. At that second it is clear. I cannot catch you. I could not contain your mesmeric abandon. But rather it is me who has been enslaved. It is I that has been caught. But there is no cage here. This is no trap. Only the freedom to be seized by the beauty of your being. The space to be taken in by your form. And the poetry of your body beholding me in this sacred night.