Your pessimistic view on beauty is amusing,
Isn’t it the beautiful that should preach upon beauty?

You have it all wrong.
Beauty is not only skin deep.
“Pretty” is skin deep.
Beauty is more than long hair and smooth skin.
More than any physical feature.

You are beauty.

Yes, beauty starts with the physical,
But it does not end there.
You are beauty.
You are graceful, eloquent.
Your smile is unmatched even by Aphrodite,.
Your personality is perpetually perfect.
You bring lightness to the shadow-stricken.
You are beauty.

MY beauty.

Beauty is not only skin deep.
Beauty is earned.

Pardon my blabbering,
it’s late as ****.

Coming together
it is easier to work
after our bodies
meet
paper and pen
neither care nor profit
whether we write or not
but as your body moves
under my hands
charged and waiting
we cut the leash
you create me against your thighs
hilly with images
moving through our word countries
my body
writes into your flesh
the poem
you make of me.

Touching you I catch midnight
as moon fires set in my throat
I love you flesh into blossom
I made you
and take you made
into me.

What does an angel dream,
If such a feat is so possible?
Of life on earth?
Or of the paradise in which he resides?

And what of demons?
Consumed in flames,
Does slumber ever ****** Satan?
It must.

If so, He must dream of heaven,
Of when he harbored angelic ailerons,
Of when he was his own sworn enemy,
Of unattainable paradise.

As Gabriel as his Angel of Death,
And God his own enemy's creator,
Satan dreams not,
For He has Nightmares Of Paradise.

Distance,
Oh what a tyrranous being you are.
So tempting and teasing.
So tiresome and misleading.

You, distance...
You, will break me.

You do not make the heart grow fonder,
For my heart grows weary,
Not stronger.

You dangle my love just beyond my reach.
And patience is something you fail to teach.

You, distance...
You, will break me.

Eve, may you leave the skeletons of snakes behind.
May 8 o'clock come before 9,
and despite a promise to yourself to wait,
start pouring the wine and write.
Write eloquent, hallucinogenic, and as the wine chimes in --
laugh as you catch the words growing larger on the page.

Eve, may the wind crawl in, rustling the blinds.
May the paint on your latest oil dry,
and when the relevant kids ask you what it means,
tell them you're just happy to be here,
and daydream of being carried by the cradling wind into the amethyst sky.

Eve, may your memory serve to keep the delicate moments stored.
May you recite the holy luck and beauty of each calendar page,
as a 4-year-old recites an entire storybook
her gentle mother has read and re-read to her.
May you sleep like that child in the comfort of fervent love.

Eve, may you dream beyond the cosmos, beyond God's heaven.
May you find rest in your own empyrean visions.
Let the beasts of the field and the birds of the air take on new names --
the monikers you choose -- let the the writhing oaks and the monuments of man
bow in a celebration of your quiet grace.

And Eve, when you wake, may you wake like a giant.
May you be 60-feet tall and still in awe of all you see,
incapable of escaping the grandeur -- indulgent only in empathy.
May the sons and daughters of this sphere raise hymns.
May the sons and daughters of this sphere find only solace in your shadow.

Eve, may you take another notice of me.
May you tell me apart from Adam, Alan, or Allah.
The rib you returned -- I never wanted back.
So, when the calendar runs out of pages, I pray the past is past.
In an act of divine forgiveness, I exit counting you as a friend.