Valentine’s Day for the Mistress

I don’t know how to write a love poem.
Overwhelmed by the subject’s ubiquity
the words shutter up tight inside of me
What can be said has often been bled
in quills to pens to one-zero roses red.
Silly tries at gallant sighs’ leapt rhyme
cry exalted emotion in schmaltzy lines
stain greasy tears of the intended eye
betrothal splaying bony legged signs.
A love poem says love like you might
by washing dishes in bone tired quiet
rubbing fingertip slight atop knuckles
barely notice my hand amid chuckles
elicited by stories through eye sparks
waving white long fingers flying larks
across meadow flap furiously in form
appears to my observing notice long.
Love wordlessly fills rhymes unheard
in flit glances, amused co-agreement
where two lives’ knowing nod is silent
an inner smile that never creases lips
like brewing heat stirring deep in hips
or scent infused of twin desires’ pours
room-filled chew open olfactory doors
body skins bleed beads of love drops
drying while our expulsive airing stops
leaving imaginary atomic pieces afloat
drifting like the sleep shared alone two
covered invisible love’s image we drew.
The portrait of a love poem fast asleep
rests in legs’ and arms’ entwined keep
in vision dream-scapes painted alone.