thousand words

never more have I ever wanted a picture to be alive or
to be a mirror

afraid that if those eyes ever lifted
they might unclose something deep in me
tenderness, what is thy remedy?

I see that wretched mole still graces your nose
I always thought of it as an establishment and not a woe

I haven't travelled but I have been places
yet I don't think I have ever been where your silence has been, but I would like to go if you would lead me

I imagine you would have frail gestures but I know you don't, you have long slender arms that hide strength.
I have troglodyte extensions fitted with chubby sausages for fingers.

look I am no poet, you must by now be painfully aware
I should maybe say things about the light, the brow, the cheek but what else might I say that bad luck byron hasn't said before me

I am sure reams of poetry exist on those hair,
but what about those shoulders, I hope someone else too cares

[If it was respectable o'clock now, I fear my twitter would intrude on yours to describe your chin with one of those japanese words I just googled; full of intense meaning but economical in form ]

red rien mouth that might just break into a soft calm eloquent smile
red fingertips that might guide hearts lost in the texture of your ocean to port, in thee.

oh how I wish I could show you
the world has a new praxis
with you as its axis

oh look what you made me do
you made me rhyme