air like frozen glass
on fingertips brothe
down our necks,
when you turned
to me and mused

"women
just want
to be
described"

which caught
in my throat, like
a popcorn kernel or
a spoon of cinnamon.

who are the words
i could use to
capture you? to
translate you
to all those poor
******* who'll
never get the chance
to see you do
those giddy jumps
you do when we
walk together.

i could start with
your hair; just above
the shoulderline that
taught honey how
to flow. your cheeks;
flushed like a late
spanish summer. eyes
and lips like a dare,
your dimples like
a prize. every bit
worth a page.

i couldn't forget
your collarbones
or your waist
or your navel
or your hips
but you are more
than whatever
my poetry
can describe.
you are moments
i see throughout;

the pixie-ring of
tulips, the heron
patiently fishing,
the cloudform
pareidolia i see
from my rooftop.
i feel about you
how i felt about
the mediterranean
sea in my lungs.

those poor *******
can write
and describe you
how they wish.
i will carry on
catching you
in the corner of
my eyes and over
my shoulders
until i can see
you again.