I would inscribe her image on the front of my heart,

were her irises, ink.

And though my hands have wept and bled.

Though my tongue has sworn and stabbed.

Though my heart has hunted and prayed.

Though my lips have lied and kissed.

I haven't the knowledge to capture her.

My masterpiece, a failed rendition of  her countenance.

Put down your pen, poet.

No arrangement can rival the timelessness of her touch.

To try is folly.

Love simply.


Let my half of our kiss be the melody you harmonize to.

*“Hold me tight.”