To You

It began as an accident, a moment beside you:
This is the press of a bashful hand, this is the float and odor of hair,
This is the touch of my lips to yours, this is the murmur of yearning:
Drink me while you can, like milk, know me by scent
before you learn my name.

When I sing your name I borrow a lilt
I'd never use in speech, my voice takes a new note
full of you: I whisper with my lips close to your ear,
I spell your name out, trembling with each key;
I will leave all and come and make hymns of you.

This hour I tell things in confidence,
I might not tell everybody, but I will tell you,
because I am trapped in your eyes
like a dragonfly in amber.

I only am she who places over you no master, owner, better,

God, beyond what waits intrinsically in yourself.

Whitman con Lindner
Fontanel, Crystal, To You, 24 de Song of Myself, The way we touch today, Coffee Break