Desperate Compliment

I love your smile and your head of hair the most.
It's such shallow things to dwell on.
God damn it.
I can only become religious
in describing your physical features.
You are angelic.
You are transcendent.
I know this because I make efforts
to avoid the metaphysical,
even when the odds are insurmountably
against me.
It is inevitable
Humans are nouns behind a reference desk
that is their own minds.
Woman saints in paint and sculpture
which left me rapt.
The Ecstasy of Saint Teresa
by Gian Lorenzo Bernini.
There you have it.
I sometimes view you as a work of art.
This is your skin (even with blemishes.)
This is your hair (even greasy or smokey
from cigarettes smoked at the bar.)
This is your body, draped in second hand clothes
(and it is so thrilling because all of my favorite
clothes were found at a thrift store)
in the sunlight I was so lucky to see you in...
And your lips.
Not necessarily how they look
(they are lovely to look at)
but more of how they feel against my own.
Conducive.
Sublime.
News Flash: you are not special in this world.
You are mostly insignificant.
You are important to me.
I don't know if this really matters,
but it matters to me in an very selfish way,
and it will always matter to me.
I am native to this land,
but this seems to rise above nativity.
Hello stranger.
It is always good to see you.
How are you?

Aaron C. Molden