my own work

My Beautiful Star

Oh, my sweet girl
I’ve said so many things,
and every one of them
fell from my tongue
in a moment of suffocating passion
as if the speaking were finally breathing,
a relief from the joyous pain
of asphyxiation.

Every word a sacred truth,
a bright smoldering ember
from the fire you swell in me,
every word the taste of my lips
to be read as an ardent kiss,
to bathe your body in my touch
when we cannot touch.

I have rendered my heart 
in so many stricken passages,
sensual stanzas and loving lines,
never hesitating to speak
the honest truth of my heart
in bold black letters
for your eyes
when my hands
cannot touch your face.

Have I put myself out too far?

Oh, my beautiful star,
how I wish you could see the colors
behind the words I’ve written,
the rainbow of anguish and felicity,
the merciless god-like glow
pressing me to speak you truly.

But those words don’t exist.

There is nothing so beautiful as you
to compare or contrast,
and my attempts fall so miserably short
with inadequate words
poorly wrought in dull letters
serving only to illuminate the tiniest fraction
of the most desireable
of all women,
my love.

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