i close my eyes
and can’t help but wonder

who had helped Him
create you?

Did Michelangelo help Him design your face from stone and etch your beautiful imperfections into your caramel colored flesh?

Was it Raphael who decided that honey was too beautiful and decadent a substance to be left only for edible indulgence, and allowed you to have pools of golden honey for eyes?

Who better than Titan to pull from the clouds, and the water whom then MUST have pulled inspiration from silk when allowing your skin and hair to be as soft as the robes I wear to bed with you.

I wonder when He called Leonardo Da Vinci in? Was it when he decided that you were going to be beautiful? Or when He decided you’d be intelligent, or when He decided you’d be kind?

I close my eyes and wonder, did they help Him create such a work of art in hopes that you’d be mine?


After all,

I close my eyes

and dream

of those whimsical, renaissance skies.

my love language

is saying

that I HATE you

  when

what I really

wanna say

is

   I LOVE you

but if I told you

that I loved you

as often

as I felt the urge to

you’d think that I was

nuts

it is nearly midnight

and I see her

in all of her elegance

dancing through the trees,

calling me to her.

she radiates,

glows with a light so pure

so ethereal

I almost weep

for what did I do

to deserve the treasure

that is

the moon