Count, my friend. Make them count.
Limit your words to ten, or less,
As though to conceal a panorama
Of thoughts inside a dreamcatcher,
Or the stars to a wallflower, I wonder,
If you infuse all flavors that there is, altogether,
On her doubled lip of plum, the herbs of your country,
An Asia of spices squandering her mouth,
Will she smile? Hunger is key
To her heart. Use it.

Rhyme, my friend, toy with the galaxies,
Unleash the behavior of a predator, an annihilator,
Ready to swallow the moon for her love,
And burn the Venuses of the Universe,
Her doubts, her insecurities.

Blind her with the imagery of love, her true self,
For love is blind, and is yet to see the light
That she emanates. My friend, flatter her
With the colors she was deprived of.

And then, slowly, unbridle your soul, your spirit,
The white mares of your chariot. I say, set foot
To your heart, my friend, and set your self free.
The constraint of words is the constraint
Of affection. It is to chain the Divine
To the old, old pillars of ambiguities.
     Remember that.

For it is with an I love you
That you write the poem of love, my friend,
     On her wrists, waist, her chest.

          Now, tell her that.*

© 2015 J.S.P.