Your hands
Are a poem
In and of
Themselves

Your eyes
Are a novel
To be read
For years to come

But I am no more infected by your charm
I think no more about your clothes
Sliding off your body
That night we left work early
Or how the pull of your hips
Dragged me deeper
Into your backseat
It had not to do with love
Or the moonlight on your skin

I think not of that night
Or the feel of your kiss