Her eyes are a metaphor,
   a conceit, fantasy

No shakespearean sonnet
   even a lyric, will suffice
   to describe the elegance she carries

Her smile, the greatest curve,
   all simile will be denied

Haikus and couplets
   even the long ones
   will not be enough

Her laughter is a song,
   a perfect harmony and melody

She is neither a hyperbole
   nor full of irony
   instead she is perfect rhyme

She is a walking poetry
   a personification of aesthetics

Almost an abstract
   unfathomable beauty
   out of the ordinary

hot breath
on necks
finger tips
digging into
hips
eyes at my waist
side
skin shivering
tongue
incantations
slipping under your spell

I am not a gambler
or a mystic or any sort of
self-righteous prophet
but there are sometimes
these small things
that glimmer with certainty.

Small things that pinpoint
the ****** of everything
in the deep, vast universe
converging on this
slim chance.

Its the sensation that
the words are there
on the tip of my tongue,
dangerously close
to slipping out into space
where you might hear them
and love me,
love me too.