I don’t want to talk about your eyes.
That’s too overdone, though they
are fine, divine, even, and I don’t want
to make this one of those raunchy
poems about movements and thrusting
and sweat and saliva, because that
is just not me.
I could compare you to a summer’s day,
but that’s already been done—and not by
local talent, and besides, you
remind me more of spring, or even autumn—
never winter, unless we’re going back
to the subject of eyes, which would be fine
but, well, you know.
Saying you’re another half—or
a better half—sounds ridiculous, even to
the most lovesick of ears. Saying
I swoon is subtly sublime, classic, but
not you, though I’m not sure why.
You smell of mystery, and your skin is made
of those autumn leaves and spring breeze,
in a good way, of course.
You taste like my favorite color, which is green,
which tastes like you.
You sound like a low humming, a purr
but not quite, resonating from somewhere
near my diaphragm,
deafening me when you’re near.