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you are not like those others
the bread and the knife, or the goblet and the wine
you are your own, and you are mine.
your mossy eyes don't drill into my soul
nor bore a hole in my heart
they drink up my visage and love
hungrily, greedily, and yet gently.
your eyes are your own, and you are mine.
your face is, i suppose, a poem
but it's one i don't know yet.
as i let my eyes drift over the prose of your nose
your jaw
your Adam's apple
your exquisite cheekbones and
your dimples,
i feel like i could almost recite you
but not quite, not yet.
the poem is your own, and it is mine.
i know as i get to know you better
as i learn the poem
i'll find the clunky bits.
the parts where the punctuation or the metre
don't quite fit
and i'll love that poem in spite-- or perhaps because--
of it.
your mistakes are your own. and you are mine.
your smile is wide as the sky
bright as a Spokane sunset
the frame, a luscious set of lips which
are, though not often enough, swollen from kissing.
your lips are divine
soft, and sweet,
those lips entice me to do the loveliest things
and, none too soon
you'll take me
you'll make me your own, and you'll be mine.