Midnight Romanticism

The only things I could possibly rhapsodize are your words
Because they are explicit,
Powerful and tremulous, 
But explicit.
Everything else description would only dirty. 
And I will not ruin my love by translating it. 

I would record your every movement,
The delicate way you place your feet. 
But no conclusions,
No reason for my madness.
If I had reason,
I would no longer be mad, 
And my madness keeps me sane. 
The deep throated passion under my skin, 
The primal senseless roar.

Duende, the poet’s ghost.    

I love your words. 
Write so I may write. 
Pen your thoughts
So I may worship them
Without soiling your perfection.