In love with an aroma,
That comes from arms that dance in the sun.
In love with cheeks,
That sprout alike the moon, when full.
In love with strands of hair,
That rain upon shoulders and neck.
Though, I am in love with lips,
That bloom the boldest color.
I am in love with lips,
Breathing with the exhaustion in repeated sighs,
Designed by my kind,
And for myself, to crash against their plushness.
Beauty would be a sign of terror,
Were love never giving it flavor.