Canova

I miss them—

so much,

so very much—

your kisses along my arms,

delicate and cool, adorning and nourishing me

like dew upon the leaves

in the early morning hours.

I miss them—

so much,

so very much—

your locks, always a little unkempt,

tenderly attempting to hide the blush on your face

among those drops of chocolate

you so sweetly call freckles.

I miss your presence

and every expression of your essence,

from the grace with which you address every being

to the eloquence you dispense with such care;

every word measured with gentle sweetness.

Your rationality against my immediacy,

your shyness against my passion,

your delicacy against my impulsiveness—

you are the perfect balance to my excess.

I live in devotion to you.

You grace me in your mind;

I dwell in a Canova temple,

where every thought is pure and orderly.

You quiet my mind, subdue my chaos,

you reign in my chest just as you do in my head.