I give you not a material called love. It is an ink stomped upon your heart.
I do not ask you to be my lady love. Instead, a perfume to make as your flower And, I then give you petals Which climbs to ripe the rare sweetness That is hidden on your silk wrapped lips.
Every day and night, you keep me wet. And, whenever your stealthy glance longs to see me The bud of my face will get enclose by the coyness of the petals.
All the women in the world, would feel envy by your cleopatric eyes…!
Picasso would faint! If he sees the painting of the black crow of your hair branched like a bough upon your celestial face.
As the flakes of wind drizzle over me, Your nicotine fingers, keeps me warm dear.
Shakespeare is a Strawberry. Neruda is a Mango. Keats is a Watermelon. Shelley is a Pomegranate. Eliot is an Apple. Pound is a Lemon. And you, the seed of all!!!
The verse of my kisses, nested as moon droplets, when it fell as feathers to your sweet body.
Now, it had remind with you as an unopened wound. And each day, each hour It will speak you of my presence Only, if you forget me.
kilk 