HIS MUSE

I fly into your eyes

like a moth skirts
another dance around the
perimeter of torch flames

like on subtitles
at foreign matinees, my eyes
on yours are spellbound

like the pleading of crying violins
your voice finds the path
to my deepest soul

like crème brûlée lingering
on my tongue, I want to
taste more of your kisses

...and your love, like

soft on silk,
red on roses
and sweet on youth

leaves its permanence
upon my heart

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