a love letter

Lucious, the lips of my temptress

From which she curses.

Cloudy, the eyes of my vixen,

From where I see reflections—

Comparisons.

These names they give you, my sullen siren—

Though you don’t indulge in,

Though you don’t encourage—

They write you a poem

nonetheless,

To my mistress, they address.

I reread, and I confess

That

of course men are mistaken—

of course I am.

You are not one of them,

Not a seductress subdued by her innocent inexperience,

Nor a man, whom brands with such carless penmanship.

You are not these simple syllables uttered between fools who’ve no chance,

And though of course I don’t endorse it,

I hope these words that I have written,

shall lead me to moments longer than minute glances.

—

So here I sit…

with will to begin…

the stationairy all set, the ink ready to dance…

Though I digress, am I being too impulsive? Yes.

One does not simply write a love letter, no they…