You've only ever seen yourself twice:
once in a reflection,
the other in a picture.

You've never truly seen yourself,
so I'll take the liberty to devote my entire life
to describing the extent of your beauty.

The first thing everyone notices about you is
that smile of yours, dear. It's dazzling. It's distracting.
It's absolutely lovely,
and no mirror nor picture can ever replicate its splendor.
Your warm smile melts the ice, while casual chit chat merely breaks it. When you smile, the edges of your eyes crinkle just the right amount, beckoning amiably.

Your laugh is a waterfall
and I want to spend my days letting it crash down upon me,
I want to drown in its bliss. Your laugh is a lilting balm
to the horrors these ears of mine have heard,
a soothing caress to my worrisome heart and mind.

Your eyes, you underestimate their charm.
You belittle them to simple drops of brown darling but they are transformed into pools of hazel, gold, honey, sepia, and cocoa in the sunlight.
I call them bedroom eyes.
I stare into them not to look at my reflection
but to look into your heart.
You smile with your eyes sometimes,
it's really quite lovely.
It's a shame you're not on the receiving end of it.

Your hair is absolutely stunning.
I could run my hands through it and let my fingers get lost in your curls and meet some bobby pins along the way.
You complain of it often, but
tracing the lines of your steep curls with my eyes
sends me into a happy daze.

On numerous occasions I have said it and I will say it again:
you feel beautiful. Your skin under mine feels absolutely lovely, my dear.
I could spend millennia letting my hands run
the length of your gorgeous body. And I'd do it happily, too.
I love the little moles you've got on your cheeks
and your ironing-board-scar and your lips (both sets).
You were born a blank page but now you're a beautiful work of art with depth and shades and texture.

Your body is a diamond: it is multifaceted and precious and priceless.
And it deserves to be looked at, my dear.
I adore your body, sweetheart. From the scoop of your collarbone,
to the curve of your back; from the gentle definition in your arms and legs
to the stronger curves of your *******.
I love the beckoning rise of your hips and your thighs, and the gentle mound of your ***. I could spend an eternity painting your body with my kisses, each a silent praise to the masterpiece that is your body.

And slowly growing,                                                         ­  And quickly lost,
Behold my mind,                                                            ­    Rebuild my mind,
Crawling with doubts and fear,              Construct with patience and joy,
Panicked, rushed ageing,                                   Considered, careful youth,
To cope,                                                            ­                                      To love,
To forget,                                                          ­                                  To thrive,
To move on,                                                              ­                           To keep,
To extinguish the corruption,                      To maintain a new innocence,
Or disguise it with worse,                                    And protect it with smile,
My head filled with dark,                                         Cross my shaking lips,
Emptiness,                                                 ­                                         Freedom,
Swimming in twisting mess,                            Running wherever I please,
Knots of double-helix,                                           Imagined strands of hair,
Tied to keep myself,                                                  Let down to let myself,
Separate from myself.                                                  Escape from my past.

◇

Please don't wrap your words around her
direct them straight to her heart
point them in her direction
bounce them off each shining star

She'll beg you not to mention
words of longing or of lust
enticing her to look your way
words wrapped in cotton wool and trust

Never write words for a woman
as she'll take them to her soul
breathing them in like air
not noticing she's about to fall

Her heart is so very fragile
feelings, just ready to explode
fraying quickly around the edges
when she reads your first 'Hello'

◇

I'm always running,
Running forward
or running away
trying to escape
this lonely place
full of things
I've learned to hate
all I need is a chance
to breathe again
I've become so distant
so afraid to let anyone
come near
cause no matter how close you get
a mile away is sometimes too close
or not close enough.
I've come to realize that
running only leaves you
breathless
with an empty beating chest.
Im always running,
but right now my gas tank is on E
and I don't have the money to keep going
so this is my last stop
because I get tired of running
and now all i want to do is
sleep*.

He’s no musician.
He doesn't make melodies through violin and guitar strings.
Yet he composed, haunting ballads in dramatic tempos,
Rhyming every lyric,
Harmonizing, making it dance in a musical euphony.

He’s no seamster.
Yet he cuts and he traces,
plain words and printed phrases;
Then he sews and he weaves it skilfully,
into a lovely concrete poetry.

He’s no painter.
He just has a palette of pigmented letters,
splashing colorful lines on his blank canvass.
A blast of contained evocative memories,
Streaking and shading mixtures of kaleidoscopic imagery.

He’s no storyteller.
Yet from him, I heard the most romantic tales-
One, of the moon and its lover sea.
Reciprocating shy glances, whispering I love you’s,
while kissing behind the sprawling mountains.
Though the dawn will come, they do not fear.
For after the majestic tribal sun leaves his stage,
There’ll the lovers be once again reunited.

He's no poet.**
Yet he writes--
stanzas and verses.
And oh! it revives,
every strand of emotion,
every sense of intuition,
Inside me.
A lyrical perception,
Sheer perfection,
Arousing perpetual reactions,
From me.