A Villanelle for Eros

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I feel a pulse at the sight of your face.
Your soft hazel eyes shall not let me be.
I melt at the frame; you make my blood race.

Would you imagine me covered in lace?
This fond desire is heathen and icy.
I feel a pulse at the sight of your face.

Would you be flattered by my cold embrace?
This careful secret lies in your mercy.
I melt at the frame; you make my blood race.

But you don’t respond, or leave a kind trace
Or any word I need to console me.
I feel a pulse at the sight of your face.


You look sublime, with a touch of God’s grace.
I am wild-mannered, and earth-bound, and free.
I melt at the frame; you make my blood race.

You are a phantom, bereft of this place.

 

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