Portrait of a Lover

Let the eyes falter,
else let them sing
of the aurora one shade
less of melancholy.

If unconvinced, drape
hunger from the lips;
let them rave into
the unkempt space—

feast on the disorder
dissolved from the canvas
white into your swaggering,
guiltless fingertips: remember

how the blood feels
on color until it is
the color, masking the torn
bristles of your heart.

When it feels transformed, whisper
your name into the grotto,
watching the eyes until you feel yours
close: taste the motion of her lips, and
seal it with a kiss.

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