The deference, romantic, of an artist to their muse.
She's the statue that grows from stone on her own accord,
unlinked to human ruse.
As I stray further away I feel the sun slip through my fingers.
The heat does not burn my hands, but somehow my heart still tingles.
The memory of my cheeks red-kissed, feverish,
malingers.
The honey burned like whiskey but it could not set me ablaze.
Yet this is the mellow warmth that melts sugar, skin, and candle wax.
Enough was the temptation for pen to lay itself on paper,
to willingly spill ink from the glass, on her dress.
Dilated pupils and open petals, giving way to a heaving chest.
Sticky kisses, heat-hazed roses, licked my lips and laid to rest.
The sun swims ever farther from our place along the shore,
And with bright strings it plays the tune of raindrops on a glass door.
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