My secrets are metaphors.
The words are artfully arranged in alliteration
Or cautiously halted in
Enjambment so that they don't reveal themselves.

My secrets are anaphoric.
They are metonymic, swearing secrecy to the pen.
Sometimes they are synecdoches,
Begging, afraid, in rhyme for your attention again.

My secrets are anecdotes.
They write about themselves through personification.
This poem juxtaposes itself;
I've told you all of my secrets of secrecy-how ironic.

I am enthralled by your hands which write a line of poetry
On every ray of sunshine you exert toward my body.

I cannot breathe; at least not enough of you.
My heartbeat quickens as you confess your love
Through shoulder kisses, intertwined fingers,
And rosy paint across my neck.

Your words melt away inside my head,
Setting my rationality aflame into fuzzy sentiment.
My restraint deserts me as you inch closer to my face.

When our lips meet, the heat is so intense
I unintentionally cry from inexplicable happiness.
So that the wet tears will reduce the heat's severity.

I want to burn when you reach for my cheeks.
I want my knees to crumble when your fingers touch my hips.
I want to kiss you until I can breathe again;

Each of your kisses provides oxygen foreign to the air.

It's not until our lips detach that I feel the pain
Of an unchecked inferno growing within me.
I'm deprived of my breath when I'm not in your arms.

And so I wait to glow.
I wait in his hellish blaze to meet the warmth in your palms
And the flickers of sweetness in your eyes.
I'll wait to read your interchangeable poetry and fire.