stain her lips with your kisses,
but do not paint her face with your anger.
rage does not fit in romance,
too many letters have gone missing,
and too many souls gone silent.
let her skin be canvas untouched,
caressed out of love for the unknown,
stroked with a soft touch.
forget what callused the tips of your bristles -
there will always be another sunset to capture tomorrow,
and an artist is nothing without good supplies and good ideas.
but she is not a paintbrush,
a tool you get to control -
make her your muse instead of a tattered sketchbook page.
take her weeping from the background of a dark forest,
to the foreground of the sun rising on a soft-sanded new tomorrow -
take her into your arms,
mold her sweetly, gently into your heart,
and allow the clay to harden and heal any cracks still exposed.
a woman is a work of art on her own,
ready to be appreciated -
there is no need to change her beauty,
only a craving to be a part of it.
i'm really not sure if this is nonsense, but it comes from the heart and that must count for something
