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Perfect Paramour
Your arm, curved slightly, placed delicately upon your waist, whispers the forbidden name of a secret inner solitude through your fingertips and forms half a heart symmetric only to that of the perfect paramour.
Your figure, stable and sleek from years of dismal drops of unrequited rapidly rushing romance, stands strong and sure as the red you bleed unwillingly, rusing to contract, refusing to give in to rejection, loss, lies, or any other fate beyond mortal control.
Her tears are falling, eternally exposed to your knowing nave, falling into a pool of past perceptions whose molecules cling to each other the way lovers do during the dawn after soft soul kisses and sweet seduction...but they're polar.
You'll collect them, delicate secrets, relined and masked to all but heaven. You'll save them, keep them close, make them a part of you. She's a part of you. Pour her inside yourself. Pour her out. Her liquid drops of eternal ecstasy run through your mind in circles from spine to tailbone, heaven to hell, clouds to the ocean floor.
The perfect paramour: a crimson cup of secrets washed away and refilled each morn by the hands of a stranger, the heart of inescapable eternity.
