I danced with Jane Doe on a bed of ballpoint pens.
We swung and swayed atop points of permanence,
Inhibition eroded amidst synchronized motion,
I was amazed by the marks left.
Flesh sick with ink, giving birth to an
immaculate concept,
So perfect yet hollow she enveloped me,
In her beautifully melancholy melody.

Interest became obsession,
The pick of a scab became sautéed skin,
The pick of a string became voodoo child,
The pick of perfection became obsession,
We were made in his image so we are creators by nature
and I made her. My Aphrodite.

Equipped with hips that manifest destiny,
but only within the walls of my museum of delusion,
Skin envied by silk; hue cursed by mahogany,
but my fingertips only trace hollow lines on paper,
There were Angelou inspired treasures in her rain forest,
but she is a concept incapable of conception,

Most importantly I gave her imagination.
I gave Mona Lisa a canvas,
and she painted me.
But perfection is merely a theory,
Her hollow touch will never harden.
I can't fall in love with this mysterious maiden.
She only exists between the margins.