If I could love in words

I’d write a sestina

As long as her legs,

filter it in sepia

silk sheets shrouded in a vignette.

She is a maze

I need to understand,

again,

before I breathe.  

Her body,

lines of iambic pentameter

rhyming in my head.

I gasp

in complete stanzas.

 I want

her hair,

tangled metaphors lost in

ornate vines,

splayed on my pillow.

Her eyes,

drops of moonlight

painted by angels,

encased in gold.

Her body’s a sonnet

I want to wrap around me

while I spew pathetic

poetry,

                                                unfit

to

                                              touch

her.