In a Meeting, from the Other Side of the Room

I feel as though I could die--
as though I will die--
from the vibrancy
of the sensations that assault me.
I cannot express, it seems,
the way I am affected
by a nip on the tongue,
the brush of an earring,
the play of my curls on my shoulders.
A shiver, and my eyes roll back--
my voice sobs; the cry is heard.
I look at you with deep, besotted eyes;
your lips part,
and the air is suddenly cold.
I wish I could make you feel.
If I could, I would press myself against you
and breathe life into you,
and you would know.
How I long to run the cutting point of my incisor
along the curve of your neck,
to drop soft, dry kisses on your palm,
to pull you into the snow with me,
where we might pass away in blissful anguish.
How I long to show you!
It is a pleasure to feel pain;
it is a pleasure to feel anything at all,
and I fear I will be overwhelmed:
I am shaking; I am crying.
You are beautiful,
and the colors are entrancing,
and I want to give you this--
but I fear I am the only one,
the only one here who can know these things.