ink stains turned to poetry,

Oscar Wilde depicted by oil,

and a watercolor replica of that photograph

you keep on the mantle in the cherry oak frame,

maybe we model memories and secrets,

maybe we whisper in black and white

and whistle in French


your tongue is polished granite

and your arms are copper tape

stick to me


imagine if I was Mona Lisa

imagine having to stay five feet away

not another kiss, you can’t touch a masterpiece

only a silent, loving gaze from behind a line

that screams DO NOT CROSS


I am but wax shavings from the crayon of a toddler,

no masterful art here

but you

you, dear, are a beautifully sculpted pieta


your marbled knuckles brush mine,

and our eyes lock in

with a full orchestra building curiosity,

plucking love, burning lust

our lips have found each other

now I’m a puddle of paint


I will tattoo illustrations on your back

with my fingertips

and you can hum allegories

of peonies and peach trees


we dream in pinks and golds

and hold each other like delicate glass trophies,

skin soft like silk and chiffon

waltzing bare hoping Mozart won’t mind,

and Manet finds a quiet joy


you continue to take the most alluring shape,

your angles and curves blossom

over your creamy exterior and gemstone eyes

I never cease to question

why you aren’t sitting in a gallery


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