Lore

you charm me into this believable lore:

your eyes for instance, in their glance
teach me of casting traditions
of how to freeze,
of how to enchain,
of how incinerate and
to banish a memory of a past lover

your hands, when they play on mine
in their usual ripitty-tap
flaunt age-old dances and ordinance
of exotic sensations
that are my great salve.
suddenly in those moments
I no longer hurt,
nor burn within,
nor a trace of any scar
on me can be seen

more so
your smile, even at its infancy
when it is just about to bud,
flower my realm
in amnesia scents.
suddenly i murmur
no other name but yours.

romantics will say they would
never want to wake up
in such a dream when
profound and arcane knowledge
is granted them -
more spells to cast, more
and more incantations
to learn how to weave,
you see

but i yearn more -
yearn more than glances
and bemoanings, and sighs,
and smiles, and cries...
yearn more than all
that your teachings
of how to be a man

will i trade this dream
to risk
waking up and finding you
gone?

how is it that
I would love to believe
all this to be magic,
when it is you and your petite means
only that manifest these?
no kisses, nor any
confessed adoration

I would love to hypnotise
you much like you do to me
in my sleep, but
there are no real kisses
there, nor any embrace
only just another memory to hold

i would love to believe in your lore
but i would want more to believe
in love.