Unmade like Your Side of the Bed

by Tutu Ekpebor
(Boston, MA, USA)

http://www.flickr.com/photos/jadetook/4809261120/sizes/z/in/photostream/

It becomes more than a task to explain you.
I could write 500 pages introducing our crazy-beautiful experiences,
but explanations of you are failed operations.
I break my hand writing these sentences to define who you are;
that meaning you've stamped on my heart.

I have always believed you were a masterpiece; one of the world's godly work of arts.
--something too precious to comprehend through analytical vision.
It may have been your smile.
It was bright, and kind; it lead me to believe you were heaven sent.
An art that I was overly obsessed with.
Infatuated with the ironic contrast of your midnight black hair 
mysteriously, above those gleaming sunlight brown eyes.

Staring into your beauty was a sin.
Although, I would persistently ignore all those regulations,
because as long as you were my reaper,
I had no problem receiving blindness or imprisonment for any of my law-breaking.
I desired the glory of my pulsing heart faintly dying in your hands.

I was more than in love,
I was fantastically amazed by your touch.
The way you rub your fingers against my cheeks made me blush so much,
and one kiss from you was more divine than your looks.

How do I put this,
you were my prize possession,
my abortive desire,
my illusional belief.
the fanciful dream that only lasted in my sleep.