You could be my husband,
I could be your wife.
Could do things for one another,
which our significant other,
finds so out of sight.
You could play the guitar, or dance for me.
I would be put in a trance instantanously.
Your body, the way that it moves,
so slick and so quick yet undeniably,
a body with moves so angelic, moving so gracefully.
I could cook for you; need no book to,
prepare meals for you, all throughout which I infuse,
upper echelon magnitudes of love.
You could do for me, that I can not see.
The fashion sense I so surely lack.
So instead you could dress me,
soft yet so firm, would your caress be.
You’re cloudy so shrowded and crowded,
like unlabeled perserves,
you’re jam packed full of mystery.
Like a two piece jigsaw puzzle,
It’s just you that fits with me.
Our finished puzzle could so majestically,
portray the perfect life that I seek.
It could be a Godsend, a present,
or our finale, our one true destiny.
I could make you a crown, my Queen you could be.
Along with a crown from your King,
comes a boundless array of meaningfull,
so beautiful, homeade jewelry.
Materials I could use are niether rhinestone, or gem.
Glass and blood, hemp rope and love, some tools that I employ.
Blowtorches, a marble slab, a silver spoon, lust and propane.
Just to name a few small things
with which I historify our legacy, your name.
You could talk, you could sing,
when your lips move the bell in my heart rings.
And speaking of your lips,
so silk like a touch I recieve from your kiss.
Your lower lip so dainty and tame it seems to me.
In contrast to your upper lip, oh God yes that upper lip,
curvature is a fine mix between the tilde and apostrophe.
Your lips seem to me, like some things that I’ve seen.
Like hills with field of flowers perched atop,
with vast ravines sitting in between the hills I can not stop,
looking at them absorbing them slowly I intake it all.
Lips complete a face with looks that could kill a man,
if that man had not a plan to take them dose by dose.
One day, hopefully you could say,
“Come; and punctually punctuate with me.”
Now please take a moment to imagine an island out at sea.
This island it’s no ordinary island but could be our island,
only ours; your soldier boy, and my Denzie.
Sometimes maybe we could fight, cut, or slice.
We could strangle each other, and draw blood with our bites.
But we do these things in jest, and never in strife.
We could imbibe, our island would provide,
fields of cannabis and opium poppies.
I could carry you, I could marry you,
I would love to lay there with you.
You could play with my hair, your fingers brushing through.
In our self constructed, never to be formally inducted
home our little cozy woodland abode.
Sans chaoticaly psychotic society;
me and you, you and me.
Caleb the Denz-aholic, and his bestfriend to the end.
The one and the only known Denz-anol producer.
The most beautiful soul
Mariah Florance Denz