You have a pair of eyes that whisper spark.
I can hear them roar when I glance into
the picture of you, smiling behind glasses,
freckles punctuating your joy. I am glued
to your face; your deep irises, hair dark
as beech wood, lips full as a lunatic moon.

I’m surprised you haven’t burnt men alive
with your glare: you are more forest fire
than glass of wine. I’ll bet that you sizzle
when you’re kissed. A man can burn like a pyre
should he even think to utter a lie.
I want that. I want a woman who sighs

and sings songs that smoke: one that can’t fizzle
out with sadness, one that can shine like stars
on a moonless night. I’m a dry stack of wood:
here, take my hand. Ignite my skin. Your scars
are molten gold, glimmering. Make me dizzy
with electricity. Make me red like Mars:

a man once sailed an ocean, for a face like yours;
and, I think, given time, I also would.
Helen of Troy was gorgeous; however,
with eyes like yours, a man could fight forever.