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.