When I see her face
I don’t get an ********
But something in my gut
yearns to be held by her.
If only I could spend my life
understanding her face.
In time I would
uncover God.
Instead I am afraid
and I do get an ********
I smear her lips with brine
smudge dark honey
under her eyes.
How do I orchestrate ******
accompany **** with a melody?
When the sun comes
she is marked.