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Beautiful you. You make me want to undress my metaphors and slowly peel away the neglishay that covers my muse. I want to hold you on my tongue confidently like the first intimate words whispered in your direction to acquire your attention. It happens every time you walk by. Sugar, those flames in your stride ignite something primal within me. You, beautiful beyond simplistic terminology that makes me laugh when lesser poets attempt to paint pictures for you. You’ve got my pen moving in synch with the fluctuation of your hips and when you smile at me like that I know that you know that you got me wrapped around those nasty little thoughts dwelling in both our heads. You make me want to cast away inhibition, throw caution to the wind, and offer myself to your altar. I say do with me as you will. I am ready to sacrifice my cool. I am ready to pursue you. Ready to hunt you down like the prize that you are and kill you so good, Sugar. I am ready to make you die in the Shakespearean definition of the word. Ready to let you go limp, cradled in my arms ravaged. Let the tip of my tongue touch and traverse your surface until your skin cries raindrops. I want to sip sweat from the small of your back and French kiss you in places that would make your wet dreams blush in admiration. For you make the muse grind against my creativity until it heaves in adoration the way your heart does as you pass. You’ve got me feelin’ a few quarts short of rational. Similar to grown folk with crushes and not that stuff you get in high school. I’m talking late night club crushes. When you see someone so exquisite your lungs’ vice grips shut as they pass and then extend to apprehend their fragrance as they waltz by. You’ve got me writing to impress the muse, movin’ my fingertips in a manner that sends spasms down her spine. And even though I think that love poems are clichéd. I offer this invitation to you. Let’s converse on a level that few mortals are brave enough to venture. Bless me with the opportunity to bask in the radiance of your smile I pray thee. For these eyes ache and overflow with arousal and you are the flawed portrait of perfection that keeps my vision virtuously vulgar. It is safe to say that I want you badly. But the muse wants me to speak beautifully to you. She wants you to understand that you are her mirror reflection. The lucid lullaby that keeps mere men in trance like states, enamored for eons.