Decade

A thing of beauty

without a place to be real,

but real it is regardless.

The sounds of prose

and octaves

rise in me any time I wander

the garden of your words.

Fatal flowers like free verse flowing

The glowing of my cheeks

and forehead

from beneath my skin

caused by a sudden spike

in temperature

tells me what I already know,

you have crept into my bones

and tattooed corresponding sonnets

to my soul.

I could go on loving you

for another decade, effortlessly.