I have yet to make sense of the muddled inks that create your irises A sort of a composition in chocolate and oaky warmth
- not brown.
When searching for a metaphor to describe you the idea that circles back and which I can not nor will ever be able to disregard is that of an ice sculpture: something for which you spend hours, building up only to watch it melt helplessly paralysed I watched you with her helplessly paralysed I watched your temperature rise and that husk around your heart begin to thaw like the way it did for me
And when I couldn't watch you anymore when the pain became too great that I had to deny myself that pleasure of looking at you with your chocolate composition I turned away and imagined you imagining me
You are an ellipsis because you are possibility You are plums stolen from the ice box You are the forest, so lovely, dark and deep You are the paragon of art You, you talk like winter rain You are like firm red grapes like stretching like that sunshine on winter mornings but also like moonlight in all its grace and purity and
love
you make me want to be a poet if for reasons no more than wanting to impress you
They say that there is a place on one's chest that, when struck, stops the heart from beating