If I’m to write of you, the paper cannot be plain
it must have
torn edges
and be made of beautiful linen.
The words will not rhyme –they will be scattered
‘cross the page…
but fall perfectly, from my lips.
There will be unnecessary and hopelessly romantic
pauses- -
With deep, aching sighs hidden in between
these lines.
And memories of touch
of
hands
his hands
[your] hands
on my skin, which now glisten with sweat
As my heart continues to keep time
to this song
of you
and I.