escaped the artist's mind to
pose upon his canvas
there was no way for them to know
all the ways in which they would
pale in comparison to her.
She was made for the
Italian Renaissance, with not a
straight line to be found on her plump,
luscious frame. Curve melts into curve
and I get lost in the
landscape of her body.
The obsidian ringlets that
spring forth from her head
cannot conceal
the hairpin curve of her scarlet lips
or the alabaster porcelain
of her perfectly speckled skin.
I would pawn my crossroads soul
for the chance to graze her lips
with mine; those ten seconds in
heaven would be worth eternity
in hell - the fire and brimstone
can never destroy my memory of her.
I lay awake each night
and count the constellations in
the freckled flecks that
dance across her nose and cheeks
while her eyelids flutter in time with
the rise and fall of her curvilinear chest.
Her body is my temple
and I yearn to worship daily.