There’s something magical in the way your shoulder blades move,
sinewy muscles pulling,
tightening, loosening,
moving with all the grace befitting a goddess.
The metallic shine of the clumsy chain about your neck,
the few freckles that dot your back,
constellations of an unfulfilled desire,
begging for a game of connect-the-dots.
The sharp, inviting angles of your shoulders,
the simple strap of your shirt breaking the beautiful monotony of your flawless skin,
the deep red cutting across the porcelain flesh.
Your hair, haphazardly thrown atop your head,
curls of blonde fire,
framed by petite ears, lobes pierced.
That casual side glance, a flash of rouged cheeks,
eyes of never-ending blue,
a blue I could crawl in and die.
But I turn from your simple grace,
unable to approach,
only admire from afar –
constellations of an unfulfilled desire,
a fleeting dream of never-ending blue.