You make me feel, impetuous,
prejudice to the smile
that only puckered lips
could seal butterflies in,
these fluttered feelings pry,
kisses that could never justify
what it is you truly do to me.
To the point where,
only impassioned actions
could capture these attractions
mastered by the way you say my name.
As if all eight letters rolled the same
syllables as the heart beat in my veins,
I am insane for you.
Deranged in my point of view,
that when I picture you
cupid points arrows at distractions
of abstract art
given subtraction for the parts
that bows could never cover,
lover, I am in awe of you.