but you
of rivulets
of hair i find
impossible to write
about the glow
the certain color
more than soul or mind
could ever dance
the ways they dream or flow

but you
of arms and hands
and something more
that holds me tighter
than the soft of skin
that brushes
(no, it doesn't brush,
graze, or
any word --
my descriptions can't begin)

but you
of those eyes, those...
those eyes that no
wind, wave,
or glitter from the most wide
and deepest blue
of depths
could hope to show

but you
who smiles
and tears down walls inside
my heart,
how could you
care about a phrase
or two of someone else
in love's past haze?