The Futility of Ink

How does one write a perfect poem of love?
Is just to state the obvious enough?
Or must I in all fairness ask some questions first?
Darling, what makes you hunger most, or thirst?
What do you notice at quick glance, is it my lips, my eyes?
Is your concern what lies between my ribs…or just my thighs?
Is it words or touching, love; that moves you to the core?
If I should die tonight, tell me, which one would you miss more?
For I think above anything I should like to write
The very perfect love poem, but I never get it quite…

Yet I would like to try to know the man behind your eyes
What you think when you’re alone; what spawns those sighs?
And what is it you ache for that you think you cannot tell?
What makes you feel like I just do not know you very well?
To write a perfect love poem, must I really know?
Or shall I simply close my eyes and let the ocean flow?
Ah, words are futile syllables with which to pen
This Thing which thrills, fulfills and torments men
To write a perfect love poem, darling, I cannot do
But oh, it is a perfect storm, and I love you

J~