You are the fetish which binds
my wayward thoughts together.
I return to you again and again
as an animal driven by instinct,
as a woman who is unmistakably sensual.

At night when no one is looking
I surrender to the otherworldly,
to the dreams that we become
when the affectations
of the day have ceased to sow
their bitter seeds in us.

No one fits inside of me
the way that you do.
I want to give you something real,
my willful but willing heart,
my imperfect self,
my revolutionary tendencies.
I think that we could create
something extraordinary together,
combining our talents
and the guilty weight
of those passions which threaten
to consume us over time.

When I am alone
I reinvent the astonishment
of that first sunrise
in a way which, for all its carnality,
is a supremely gentle act.
When I am alone
spilling over a precipice
created by my own insistence
your face enters my mind
and I see in you
every color imaginable.

I love the way your mouth moves
across the metaphors of poems
your soul has not yet written.
I love the potential of hidden things.
I love how the word midnight
sounds both romantic and sinister,
and I love the idea of waking up
exactly in the middle of something
and finding that the shadows
have a substance that the day
has yet to witness.

I know that everything
your hands touch
becomes art in my eyes
and that a beauty
bestowed by love
can never be diminished.
I know that I would
gladly spend lifetimes
getting to know you
because you are the only one
who has ever made me feel lucid.


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