You have the lips that every painter envies
the perfect shape
for the gentle sweep of the
feather light brush.
Crimson pigments could not do justice
to your kiss-stained lips.
Their color when your eyes
are still half closed with bliss
Eclipse the bricks of Boston
the cherry red wine
And the cardinals of winter.
A slight rift appears
giving away an intoxicating whisper
Of your breath
Of words spoken to my ears alone,
and those that never need be uttered.
Those are the words I read in your azure eyes
In the curve of your lips,
In the shudder of your breath.
I am conquorered by your splendor
and my artists eyes could not resist,
And so willingly I go
As a captive of your lips.