This is not a poem about a fawn, unless that is what it is about for you. It is about the longing, and the fear that goes with it. It is for anyone who has ever loved anything so much that he fears his very presence will bespoil it.   -Illya

How the Softness yields beneath my touch.
The eyes unfold, my breath... too much.
The coarseness of her mane sinewy youth,
And locked within her gaze the naked truth
Of times I've spent swept up in mortal duty
Instead of into ceaseless pools of beauty.
Footsteps trip lightly, of dances with the wind.
Cast sideways glances of urges to begin
To stroke the creature but then no, to stay
My hand for fear that it will pull away.
The longing in my soul the urging still
Sustains me from the depths of dying will.
O, calloused palm to fall upon the gentler beast.
I would not then that all my longing ceased.