Upon the table, still I lay,
A canvas painted, blue and gray.
Though whispers soft, and glances keen,
A silent drama, subtly seen.

The touch, a feather, light and fleet,
Suggests a passion, bittersweet.
The words, like stones, so smooth and low,
A subtle promise, to and fro.

Encouraging gestures, soft and warm,
A tapestry of longing, a silent storm.
Yet still I lie, a passive thing,
A painted picture, on the wing.

No stirring, no response I give,
A silent observer, a soul to live.
In this profound and hushed embrace,
A canvas veiled, in time and space.


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A whisper soft, a shadowed gaze,
A fleeting touch, a whispered phrase.
An unspoken yearning, deep and vast,
A mystery's embrace, a thrilling cast.

Is he, or she, a hidden soul?
A puzzle's pieces, taking hold.
The heart beats fast, a frantic drum,
As doubt and hope, in shadows come.

Incertitude, a silken thread,
Entwines the mind, the senses led.
Assumptions crumble, frail and thin,
As secrets bloom, where shadows win.

The thrill of not knowing, bittersweet,
A hunger stirs, a longing meet.
The eroticism of the unknown,
A fire's spark, a love's first groan.

Uncertainties, a tangled vine,
Entwine the soul, a love divine.
A dance of doubt, a whispered plea,
The unknown's charm, eternally.

Tomaž Jevšenak