I cannot
not compute,
this beauty, it's all around you,
as it can only exist in you,

surrounded in your shades,
your observation unto its grace,

this world,
you make,
real.

It's why I'll make,
you,

looking to your lines, your curves,
defining you by sight, tracing starlight,
then eyes, that shine unto mine,

as life becomes life's
worth living.

The heavens we can trace,
with but a glance to the place,
where by chance we will paint,
on the same lines of a space,
occupied by a fate,
between the times,
that we made,
and bang,

the endtroduction.

But faster, and fast-err, or,
can't not, not, compute,
bigger, better, more, and more,

the fabric,
it dilutes,
torn,

pouring from a door,
on another side,
doing just fine,

looking
no further

than the sky.

In the night
as i frenzy for your mouth
on my mouth
and the darkness of our souls collide.
I am electrified into life
and grounded by your kiss.

i have an ongoing
love affair
with words
that roll around your
mouth

luscious, langourous
lilliputitian letters

sensual syllables
slick- sliding off
the tongue

ecstatic explosions,
erupting, erogenously
exciting, eager exclaimations,
of enraptured exualtations

organic, original orientations
of teeth and tongue
producing oodles,
of apogeic anomolies

my affair
accomplishes much
for little

it is you see
just a not so secret love
of letter, line, jot and tittle.

a casting eye upon a word
and i am set rushing
down a path
reserved for those
with terms, descriptive,
and names.
that in themselves,
decry
wordlove.

lexicographers and bibliophiles
phoneologists, linguists, polygots,
jonguluers, wordsmiths scribes
poets.

all possess this
heartstringed
tangled knot,
spiderwebbed
feeling,
for words.
which, we then,
endevour to spin,
into inkstained beauty,
to ensare
ourselves ...and others.