poetry on skin

Falling in love

is glamorous hell; the crouched, parched heart 

like a tiger ready to kill; a flame's fierce licks under the skin.

Into my life, larger than life, beautiful, you strolled in.

- Carol Ann Duffy, “You”

Words are futile. We spend so long trying to craft them a particular way, anxious to do justice to the breathtaking, mind-blowing, heart-exploding beauty before our eyes, our only tool a string of squiggles. A sunset. The lapping waves along the beach at five-thirty. A look in someone’s eyes. A kiss. How do you put words to an embrace? 

You gaze at me in your bed, receiving the gift that lies before you, and one by one you list every body part, every part of me you find beautiful, starting from my feet. My calves. My kneecaps. My thighs. My hips. My waist. “Is this the new Song of Songs?” I quip cheekily, just before you mention the one I know is coming. “I can’t go into that much detail,” you confess, before continuing. My boobs. My neck. My face. My eyes. My hair. You never stutter when you speak from your heart, and you keep your eyes on me. 

Falling in love is the greatest poetry. There is no longer a need for words.