My hands play ******,
these five-tongued serpents
slither up your sides,
brushing their calming ends
upwards to your Wisdom
and down to your Pleasure.

How embarrassing is it to be human!-
          That we eagerly hate others
          and repel those who disagree with us (or who we disagree with, as well).
In the -ostensibly- freest country on our planet,
whose birth came with the ideology of individuals being united,
it's so ugly how quick hatred spreads like a fungus,
          covering cities in days, if not hours.
A proper, just people embrace diversity,
           adore questioning,
                   and reinforce rhetoric.
We are animals, playing drunk in the same filth we use to feed our children.

I love the slight hair on the back of your neck, that stands ***** with the sensations I bring.
I love the vascular skin of your roots, that shows brightest not when walking, but resting.
I love the contortion your ear undergoes anytime I bring a smile upon your crystalline face.
I love the way the tips of your front-most hair gives a curl outward, as if rushing away in rebellion.

All men who meet you could say they love your smile, your hair, your eyes, and the remaining plethora of options, but when you look in the mirror to see your hair, I want you to envision me. When a smile forms on your lips, I want you to look back to me. When your putting socks onto your feet and you see it's skin, I want you to recall me.  When you brush a hand over the back of your neck, I want you to think of me.
I want to be the indelible love that floats in your subconscious, leaving tiny imprints over every portion of you.
In every small thing you do, I want to be so lively in your mind that you recall me with every action.

I wish I was a painter,
           So I could bring your beauty to a canvas,
           so I could see you as I please.
I wish I was a sculptor,
            So I could form your curves in clay, to envision as I wish.
I wish I was a photographer,
            So I could capture that transient twinkle that lays in your eyes.
But, I am none of those things.
           I cannot paint.
           I cannot sculpt.
           I cannot photograph.

Yet, I can capture you in my indelible words,
       I can sculpt you in mellifluous words,
       and I can photograph you by giving you syllables that begin
               to describe the way I feel when I find your eyes in mine.

It’s been two years since I asked you to be mine,
And 9 months since I saw the tears in your eyes,
Actually, I’m wrong, it’s been that long
Since I’ve whispered goodbye
But I’ve seen the rivers flow of cries
At least a dozen more times.
And though you lie
In the back of my fabricated mind,
Living your life as a scar,
But that’s just what you are to be,
You will never truly escape my body,
Your scent will never leave my nose,
I will never exhale every breath I breathed of you,
I will never stop feeling the skin of your stomach slid beneath my fingers,
And I let them linger, just so I could feel a sliver
Of your soul in its own shell
And now me in my own hell,
But this is what I deserve.
If you think back to me,
Think back kindly.

Oh, of that scarlet succulence!
where the limits of unfamiliarity
succumb to the aloof setting
of one room containing two souls!

Oh, of that scarlet succulence!
As dulcet lips and trembling hands
dance across a field of such
unblemished skin and pouncing fragrance!

Oh, of that scarlet succulence!
Where your body doesn't contain you alone,
and mind doesn't contain me alone,
but each of us dissipates into the other!

Oh, of that scarlet succulence!
Where joy is no longer a word,
but the sound of a pant lost between
clenches of your hand and body!