I re-read her texts, over and over-
like classics penned by the greatest
authors they keep me engrossed;
Each line seemingly fresh and new with every pass of my eye...
I gaze at her pictures, over and over-
studies of DaVinci and Michaelangelo
could never hold my imagination so;
Each curve graceful, supple- traced with every pass of my finger...
I listen intently to her, over and over-
a siren's song, her voice an orchestral
score Mozart only dreamed of creating;
Each note resonating, full and free like
a symphony to my music starved ear...
I dream of her, over and over-
she fills my nights with burning desire,
ruling my thoughts, her eyes and lips
beckon me closer to warm embrace;
She is art in purest form, and I love her.