There’s a side of you

I can’t stop staring at,

it’s the same side

that has been there the whole time,

 

shifting and shaping

molding and creating

 

until it eventually softens

just right,

 

perfect imperfections

 

like sand falling through your

hourglass shape

and into a hidden cup

I want to drink from,

quenching a thirst

I had long thought gone away

and left me dry-mouthed

apathetic and unimaginative,

 

but your picture

            lucky number seven

a visual scripture

of peace and poetry

of lustful grace

of sinful wisdom

of anticipation and assuredness

of what’s to come,

 

and how sweet it will taste

when there is no cover,

no triangle to wear

or fill in

 

besides where our love has been.

 

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