He touched her
Like a priceless piece of art,
Like stained glass,
Like spun silver.
His hands cupped her face
Like the last draught of water
Beneath a scorching sun.
His fingers brushed her skin
Like the fire’s glow
Within a winter’s night.
Like she was light in the abyss,
Air above the water,
The pulse beneath his skin.
He touched her
Like she was something precious.
And for that, she loved him.
– s. Clark
The woman who won you,
how did she attain such a feat?
What distance must be run,
at what tremendous gait,
to gain such gold?
What quest did she fulfill
to win the sweetness of your smile?
What danger did she brave
to earn the hunger in your eyes?
What long, arduous odyssey
would I take to know your story?
What mountain would I climb
for the high of your touch?
What fearsome foe to vanquish
that would conquer such a heart?
What is her careful craft?
How do I match her might?
No, I am mere mortal.
And she must somehow be
a goddess in her own right,
the woman who won you.
– s. Clark
Her fragile beauty drew him in,
And not a piece of him was spared
For she was whiskey in a teacup,
And his heart was unprepared.
– s. Clark
They Are Beautiful
They are beautiful.
the way he looks at her,
like he can’t believe she sits there,
real, and raw, and regal before him.
He grips her hand like a lifeline,
and she traces her fingers down his arm
like a map back to shore.
They keep inching toward each other,
entangling further and further across the table,
hearts barely held apart by separate bodies.
He is her world,
and she is the universe through which he spins,
madly, wildly, flying,
but tethered in orbit
by the assurance of her hold.
They exist in their own space,
rolling through the void,
infinitesimal as dust, immense as galaxies,
and they are beautiful.
– s. Clark
Missing Piece
She was beautiful.
The way her hair twisted
and fell across rose-stained cheeks,
like soft, dark smoke, curling
over a pale, spring morning.
Her lips were pink and parted
in an invitation.
The way she hid her eyes halfway
beneath blushful, batting lashes
and sang her words like a lullaby.
She moved like the wind,
alternatingly cool and coy.
And he thought, as he watched her,
as we all hope to, in our time,
that this was perhaps the missing piece
of him, come home at last to rest.
– s. Clark
A Worthy Destruction
He was beautiful.
The way his grin sparked in his eyes
and teased his mouth into a tilt.
His gaze was bold and brown,
and full of mischief.
His voice was a storm in her ears
that left her mind clouded.
He wore his strength softly,
gentle hands with scarred knuckles,
calm, composured confidence.
And she wondered, as she watched him,
as we all do, in our way,
whether this might just be a person
worth being destroyed for.
– s. Clark
Magic is Madness
“If I sang you a love song, would you think me mad?”
“Most likely.” she answered.
“Why, darling, how sad.”
And he laid out his bones as a bridge for her feet
For though she could break him,
she made him complete.
And though he could lead her astray, he did not
But blew her to dust
with a look and a thought.
She read him her wisdom from borrowed life notes,
And he held her hostage
with lips to her throat.
And, for her, to love him was never a choice,
For magic is madness,
and hers was his voice.
– s. Clark
Wrapped
White flecks fall
Painting the landscape pure,
While we wrap warm wool about our necks.
And parcels wrapped
In jolly red and shimmering silver,
Fold in joy with tender care.
Arms enfold,
Wrapping us in warmth,
Engulfing those we love to keep them close.
Lights soft twinkling,
Like crystal-spectrum stars, and all
Is magic, wrapped around the everyday.
– s. Clark
You must understand,
She does not jump,
Risking a momentary high,
She skydives.
Plunges head-first into open air,
All adrenaline and trust.
She does not wade gently
Through shallow, lapping water.
She plunges,
Submerges deep beneath the surface,
Far from the steady land.
She can not love softly,
But leaps full-force,
Sinking to unsalvageable depths.
Forgive her hesitation,
For when she loves
She cannot love halfway.
– s. Clark
Shigé Clark Writing 