I Call Her Auburn

Often we hold affection in our throats,
And allow our cheeks inflate from their intensity –
Because truly, we fear that once we give them release,
They may not land so softly,
Or be met with the same tenderness they bring.

But eventually,
Longing sets itself free,
Despite the intent to not let go.
For desire does not seek permission to exist –
It simply curls itself into the pits
Of all your inner workings,
Reaching its way through,
In and out of you.

How I wish I said all I ever wanted to,
But for now, writing it will simply have to do.
I use this piece
as a special ode to you:

I call her Auburn
But she knows Herself true.

Auburn allows the sun to pass through her,
Opening up in translucency
And creating the richest hue.
For every artist, the perfect muse.

Had I been a butterfly,
Of the very Monarch kind,
Then I would soar greatly,
In the sky,
Basking in all my majesty –
Recognising the beauty in my creation:
To have been born with the shades of her core,
And have her joined with me once more.
A colour I am most grateful for.