It is my turn.
I am helpless.
Attempting to communicate some grain of intelligence,
murdering otherwise comprehensible words,
Slagging every au, and aw, and o.
lengthening each vowel to unnecessary
length into a subway ride of colloquialisms,
with my lazy mouth.
My terribly oppidan, languid jaw.
The same mouth
begging to touch yours,
with jaw unhinged, to envelop your face with mine.
To kiss your perfect, waspy, beau monde lips,
and feel your tongue enter my own lagging portal
of childish nonsense, and
stop all words.
Only feel the approval
of your mouth meeting mine.
Like a drink from a crystal glass,
after a day of staring through a window
on the hottest July day.
But your Greek eyes divert,
joined by a nod “good,”
a smile and perhaps a half thought,
and my turn is over.
Why is love and beauty not enough! Must I mutilate the words into quantifiable metaphors, manufacture you into object with value. You are not a number: sharp, clean, pointed; you are Human! Flaws make you special slipping into ankle deep puddles, pouting hands to sides, palms face inwards as your mouth slides down stage left . Their I see your beauty not the Mona Lisa stoic, and staring never changing always a 7, you are 7, 10, 11, infinite! Once that frown goes upstage in laughter and merriment lexicon escapes, education wasted just a finger lick touch onto me. Why fight for feeblish comparison not the soulless diamond perched on a mantle for gawkers gauging your worth wagering whether to own. You can’t be owned! You are a soul made of superlative substances of the cosmos. Created in beauty Cherished in Love. By Him.