When you smile at me with those sand-crinkled lips,
Spring blooms inside my chest. In biology, they taught us
that the bronchiole were the roots of flowers plunging down
from the buds of our lips, deep deep within the soil of my lungs.
Kissing you is like the dawn of day, and the petals in my heart
open, open wide to caress the sunlight
Those kisses bloom into the fiery heat of summer,
and my skin is set aflame.
I am a canvas and you are the painter. Your fingers
brush the burning red of romance onto my pale skin,
and I become the artwork of sensuality, for all to see.
My flushed cheeks, you say, are worthy of being seen
in the Louvre. That only makes me burn the more,
and I melt away.
It’s in the moments between light that your caresses
turn chilly, your hands crackling like fallen leaves underfoot.
You glow so beautifully in the sunset, but when I hold you close,
you chill me to the bone. It is so silent in the fall.
How can I not dwell so deeply
on the coming frost?
And then, the sea in your eyes
rages, waves crashing down onto the shore of my skin.
A winter storm, you see. I cling to the rickety wooden boat
you threw me in, and hope. The cold can be so paralysing
but the sun is on her way.
I only have to wait for you
to think of me as light