For you my love between whose gardened eyebrows lives a mystery so simple yet complete. Some days i see a flower at the edge of the praries of your forehead and the abyss of your eyes. Its heliotropium. Flowers turned defiantly away from the sun yet violet enough to suggest a secret alligiance.
Maybe some mornings a flower turns up at sun - momentarily only but enough to let the sun know that you are watching. Maybe enough to warn the sun away with the monsoon of your skin.
The sun came over for a drink yesterday. Vodka he said was the only thing to take his mind of the contours of your body. I laughed - if only at the thought of him watching your contours. They are to be smelt and not seen.
Were I to eat you, id start with the neck, chicken like in its refusal to be ignored. I thought the toes were a close second but I think ill save them for desert.