there is a part of me that
chases, clamors for, craves your touch
(soft, steady, gentle or far too much)
a stubborn/reckless fraction
of an imperfect whole;
yearning to cage the still uncaged,
to catch myself a lost angel.

but your heart is too fragile,
too precious and too complicated
(untarnished and unremonstrated)
and my grasping fingers, they
would leave smudges and stains
handprints upon a handkerchief
****** white in this world of ink.

you are not a blank canvas
that tempts one into leaving a mark
(writing my name, my love on your skin);
you are a finalised masterpiece,
every line perfection,
and to change, covet or chain you
would be the highest blasphemy.