The lazy slope of those polished lips is a work of art.
Give me those.
Never mind the belligerent twinkle in her fluttering emeralds
or the firey rubies in her hair,
clinging to the marble arches of her cheekbones.
I want the lips. Full stop.
Forget her flawless figure, gilded in perfect proportion,
or the curl of her glittering talons beneath the spotlight.
Keep her sultry stilettos and the milky feet that she weaves into them.
Not even the smooth contours of her glimmering bronzed legs
could dissuade or detract me
I just want the lips.
I could buy a picture frame and lock them inside forever,
selfishly enjoy the breathless whispers
that I know they’re so keen to give.
Or a gallery.
The perfect pout would turn the heads of a millions beauties,
envy shading their faces as red as your pretty mouth.
But never quite the same.
I could take a photograph, leave behind the dripping of another time
and bury myself in sheer black and white. And red, of course –
their bold subtlety lies in the scarlet.
Or maybe I should just claim them for my own?
Lay my rose petal mouth against hers and watch
them entwine before they walk off hand in hand into the sunset,
my newly claimed prize.
But I don’t really care. Speculation aside, I have only one desire.
Just give me the lips.