I softly place you
on your marble pedestal
whisper sweet nothings
in your immortal ear
and admire your features,
your chiseled cheek bones,
the definition of your lips
and the creases of your eyelids.
Creases, crevices in rock
that might produce a waterfall
for me to swim in, bathe in
or maybe you can wash me
in your poetry, your words
I drink in like water, and slowly
they intoxicate me, those words.
Words, signs of weakness
you say, clearly you prefer
this stoic silence that can freeze
stone or turn glass into sand.
So is it strange that I
gaze upon your chiseled features
and think I might as well
place you on a marble pedestal?