Lying here these thousand nights,
these torches dimming,
these pillows crushed,
our minds softened by the hours
and these cups of wine—
by the wildness of your tales,
your way with words,
yet feeling this moment
like sand falling through the glass
come to this.
You came to me that night
sent by your father,
fearing the madness of my violent lust,
my hate.
Enraged at my power over you,
you entered my tent each night
certain you could dazzle me with words
and slip away unharmed
for another day.
You charmed me with your words,
your wildness, your mind.
You came to me when I motioned.
but you were never there,
and it was you I came to want,
not a slave girl wanting to escape.
There was magic in the way
you caused my mind to spin,
and it was you, not your tales,
that kept me wanting you to stay.
And when I saw your fear of me,
felt you fighting,
your insides hissing like a cat—
I tried with all the power in me
to ease your despair,
tried in my clumsy ways
to let you know how deeply
I had come to care.
It hurts to see behind your smile
your fear of me
to see you play your part
like a puppet too frightened to come to life,
a mimic with too many masks.
It fills you with delight
to see your voice play on my soul,
holding me here.
It thrills you knowing I am dangling
like a locket in your hand,
twirling around and around and
around on your finger,
my mind a blur.
You love your power over me--
love entering my heart each night
like you do this tent,
stroking me as you speak,
my spirit swelling in wonder
at your mysteries--
love seeing in my eyes
my need to have you here
night after night.
And then, at dawn,
you love to kiss me on the cheek,
touch my lips,
my ears, my spine,
your fingers tickling me
until I laugh.