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
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
Shigé Clark Writing 