You are a centerpiece,

You are every art gallery.

You are Lisa's Moan

Panting under Leonardo's

Brush, echoing through

The marble halls of the

Louvre. Your skin is felspar

Pale but rough with purpose.

Your eyes are tinger and

For some reason my words

Set you ablaze. I am flint,

Useful when struck.

My lips are chalk; every

Place I've loved you and

Every place I've misplaced

My love trying to touch you

The way I thought you deserved

Shows like white lies, pale, and weak.

You are not alabaster. No part

Of you is decorative. You are

Whole ore, all rich mineral.

You are as natural as the

River that washed over you

Embedding freckles like stars.

Bone white and with every bit of

Confidence that marble lends.

I am breccia, made of shattered

Attempts and shards of once

Great statues of grandeur

That cut me in my sleep.

My geometry defies me, I am

The picture of infidelity,

My tongue is sharp and I keep

Misplacing myself and saying

Object when I mean Affection.