Lover

Lover,
   through the
melancholy in
my eyes you
would think it
possible for me
   to forget

The sensation
  of your tongue
on the hair
at the juncture
of my arm (pit)

Or the feel of
  your alive
fingers taut
around my waist

Moving me,
moulding me,
 with
  sudden urgency
to accommodate
the song you sing.

No! The language
  you speak.

The
language I first
  thought
you spoke with
your tongue.

Then listened
closer and learnt
  that you spoke it
with your
   being.

You, lover -
   intuit, inscribe,
   know -
the ancient truths
of (my) body like
a pilgrim
     returning home.

Say, lover.
Are you not
 a lover, but
   a witch
                instead?