I want to run my fingers
through your flowing hair,
kiss your rosy cheeks
& savor your precious lips.
I just want to hold you close,
nothing else......well, maybe, not.

I eat it
Nothing is as much sweet

I drink it
Nothing has ever tasted like it
Not even the finest of wines

I inhale it
Nothing sustains like it
The purest form of oxygen.

I surf on it
Unimagined beauty
Not even the biggest tide

I fly on it
Higher than any pair if wings can take you
No even those of an eagle

I puke it
And I lick all of it
It taste as fresh as from the oven.

Nothing compares to poetry
Ask every poet
He/she will tell you same.

these days,
I find myself thinking about you.
mostly late at night:
in the mornings I remember
how I may not really
even
love you.
how I may actually
love
an idea of you,
or an idea of what we
could be like.
to be honest, what I love
has little to do with you.
yours is just the face I put
together with my favourite fantasies,
with drunken dreams
of drinking wine,
someone on my side of the bed,
late night dinners,
chinese food in the bath tub,
karaoke duets.
yours is the face I put
together with the things I've seen
on TV, with my silly romantic ideals
and with long lost hopes
of possibly, forever.
I don't love you, it just
feels like it sometimes.
mostly late at night.

I want to slip
deep inside
your wonderful brain,
to unleash your creative mind
& stimulate your lobed-walls.

I want to create
a sweet friction
with your lovely cortex
& build a synapses
of unbelievable dimensions,
to flood your receptors
with my emitter,
flow my strong current
into your throbbing pulse,
again & again.