Song of DeMorra 

Navaris Darson

He is handsome, and he charms:

the German writer
with the Italian surname 
who lives near the beach in Portugal
and outnumbers me in languages.

I know English
and un petit peu Français. 
He knows volumes more. 

His voice, a blend
of honey and smoke. 
Sweet and sensuous.
Foreign yet familiar.

As his words bud and blossom,
and I linger on his rose petal lips,
imagining the taste of his kisses, 
as sweet as dark red cherries
and blackberries and plums. 

I marvel at the deep marble
of his eyes—black onyx framed
within bronze perfection—
and the threads of gold
in his finely combed hair. 

In his fullness,
embodying the classical form,
rendered by the hands
of a Renaissance master.

Appearing as visions, 
we manifest as the avatars
of two curious hearts, 
separated by considerable distances
of space and time.

As he rises in the morning,
I submerge into the night. 
His soft evening winks
at my easy afternoon. 

I know him
without ever having met him,
and we touch without touching,
our worlds converging as waves
on a digital shore. 

In our most intimate moments,
we sing. 

Nous faisons de la belle musique.

Him, serenading, with his eyes
sealed to the twilight,
and both of us drifting,
as if slipping into a dream.

February 28, 2021