When I hold your hand I can see that I’m half.
A half of a whole that’s much greater than I.
Whenever we kiss, and our chemicals mix,
Our atriums beat to harmonious sighs,
Widened in eye with no how, what’s or why’s.
Our love is an answer, a chance and a glance
Of the fact that our lives can be more than survival.

You, with your touch and your loves electricity.
Fertile and fierce, you’re my warm neon rose.
Vicious, your glows, which had soon overthrown
The darkness and evil I trapped deep inside me.
I can’t ignore it, my limerence foresaw,
It’s orphic, and it knows that you are for me.

Moulded by clay to a boring design,
Potentially scraped from the factory floors.
I’ve the conception that my own conception
Was callous and fallow, lazy, fugacious,
But mostly redundant, with one small exception;
As all would have meaning if I could be yours.

Caroline to Byron, Beatrice to Dante,
A muse can induce art much greater than I.
It’s quite right when I write I lose sight of sense,
As when I write of you sense need not apply.
My amorous love, my glamorous drug,
My muse of all muses, my honey soaked hug.