I was so afraid to look into your delicious eyes, 
but I wanted so bad to throw you onto the silver hood 
of my four door, automatic drive, eighty eight Buick Park Avenue 
that painted the moon’s crescent smiling countenance 
on its shiny turtle waxed canvas 
as if it were Leonardo Da Vinci’s beautiful Mona Lisa.  
Wanted to lay you out on the top of the steaming fuel injected V8 engine, 
unravel your veins and grounded arteries 
and connect them to the plus and negatives 
buried deep within my heart, 
to jumpstart that spark again. 
I wanted to tell, 
but the words kept turning into all- purpose flour, 
sticking to my palette like moist saliva bread.  
My tongue scrapped and scrapped against the pink walls, 
but they never fell.   
I looked at my hands then at the sky and tried again.  
Grabbing, pressing, folding, kneading, 
rolling the clouds out of the sky 
and fixing them into a small pearl for you, 
then slung it into the sky while you 
watched it yeast into a string nimbus necklace.  
I remember how your eyes glimmered, 
how you only saw clouds. 
How you never realized I saw heaven.  
But still I didn’t ask, never could, 
and every time I’d let those clouds yeast away until they burst.  
Pouring acid rain onto my fore head, 
eroding away, my lips, words, and heart.  
Then I’d sit alone, speechless, 
staring at you watching clouds, 
and watch as you ate my eyes out.