and the Mona's in the Louvre
and the opera's in Berlin
and the skin that I'm wearing
starts to feel like a sin

the gentle twinkle
of a distant star
speaks heavenly morse
with my fluttering heart

she told me her saturn was returning
the icing on the cake
of a well baked excuse

I asked, 'what on earth',
but she was far from it
she felt my climate change
and had jumped in a rocket

the recipe was written on the stars
and we were following it with ease
it said to turn up the temperature
but she turned 180° degrees

she was not a predictable kind of girl
not on the elliptical after work, kind of churlish,
living in a simple world type of girl

her hair cyclical in raphael kind of curls
and her biblical storm swirled whirlwind eyes unfurl
in the rain
like a pirouette
like a rose
like rolling thunder

I can't wash off the flower she drew
on my arm earlier this afternoon
A forget me not.
A game of 'she loves me. she loves me not'
A knot untied
I feel the fear that Narcissus must have felt as his ears turned to petals,
his hair to vines.
and his scream to a blooming flower

effortlessly wearing a cigarrette on her lips
head tilted high with one hand on her hips
a dizzyingly incandescent, nicotine laugh
i think i'd die for her
write that on my epitaph

deep-set moon-crater eyes
lips as red as the dust on mars
all i asked was for a little space
but she gave me all its stars