Straight to Heaven

You could be a painting hung in the Louvre,
in your very own display. I watch you as the protagonist
in a Miller play. When you talk I’m listening to a Wolfgang Amadeus opera of modern day, your skin, blood red

porcelain, diaphoresis fire. You might think I’m crazy. But it’s not anyone who makes me feel this way. I read you as The Great Gatsby, the highbrow of society. You make me gush, as the Trevi, in old Italy. You walk as a GQ model wearing Armani. I smell

you Straight to Heaven, such an inspiration. You awaken
all my senses, woods, musk, the earth. I walk through
your smile as Claude Monet’s garden in Giverny, actually I’m floating up in the trees. If I go any higher I’ll reach

other galaxies. Your eyes are sapphires, I swear were stolen
from the queen. You would taste as Dom Perignon poured
in a goblet of Waterford, every sip a crystal drop resting on

my lips. You might think I’m crazy. But it’s not anyone
who makes me feel this way. I would say that you’re
humble. You don’t see your own reflection in the pool. That’s what’s makes me love you. That’s what makes you beautiful.