Love Song - I

Explain to me the language of your body, Assure to me its ulterior meaning, Pure like an angel's wing, or else, Perhaps, Let me discover The ghosts of its meaning, something more akin to the Fleeting flecks of the flowers in our irises, or The fatal hints of the Siren's whispers, Where words meet their end and slowly becomes a barrage of Touches—meaning finds itself more comfortable in The oils of our skin than the notes of our tongue. The burnt pink tips of my fingers brushes across fields of purple wheat, who's Edges are scorched a soft brown, like a frothy nebulae... It asks: How is your hair like the wheats of the English? How are your lips like the kiss of the Italians? Your eyes like the glances of the Arabic? A pink summer, Duly fitted around the pale azure of your oceanic figure, and softly beckons to the oval Leaves that were left, Bled from decaying trees... You love me, I want to assume. For what other reason Would anemic sunlight be weaved into you Hair that's speckled with mourning dew? And lately the walls have been green with some Festering memories from Yesterday but The faint and sweet smell of sugar is enough to Convince me otherwise of oblivion. How are your eyes like the cosmic s c a r s, Laced with an ardent yellow between an all-consuming purple and Flecked here and there with Pollocks of white and blue, streaked with Light orange along the dark celestial rip a charcoal black…? I love you, Perhaps… But can a door compose its candor without rusty hinges? Perhaps…