If
you where to hold my hand
and look at me, my heart might
skip. I would look away, say
“The sky is lovely.” Yet there
are clouds covering the sky,
like I cloud my words meanings, for
in truth, I don’t think anything of the sky,
nor trees, nor flowers when I’m
with you. Only you. Therefore, I think
I need you, and like the
infamous poets before me, I will
attempt to immortalize you in lines,
and woo you with verse. If that should, however,
fail, I lose you to the wind, and men
yet to come, and without
you, I’ll be of the trees Orpheus
sings to, with somber branches and
lost leaves. I will talk and write of your
eyes, an electric, endless brown.
Of your voice, drifting in
the air and stopping at nothing
to please. Of your figure and grace,
destroying wills of men like the Sirens song,
yet thicker and more potent,
lingering like cigar smoke in the air.
Eventually, yes, my mind will move on,
but frozen in time would be my
emotions for you in these lines,
and if ever you need to feel loved,
you need only read.
If it where to work though, the
story takes a different path, which is
one I leave to your imagination.
An obscurity found in most love
stories. ‘They lived happily ever after,’
would, could, be us, where you to
dip your fingers (what gentle,
beautiful fingers), into the well
of my palm.
The choice then is yours then,
my lovely R------, what’ll it be?
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