Titian moonlight bathes

you pink alabaster on

silver sheets as I

wish to be brush and canvas,

painting you with every stroke.

Painter's eyes, poorly

trained for night, cede the darkness

to sculptor's fingers,

where model and work are one,

poor Pygmalion's art outdone.

Shall love be as music,

heard in the moment, to live

then as memory,

Whisper nightly in my ear

our never ending love song.

Painters, brush in hand,

musicians, fingers on strings

sculptors, hammer raised,

defer to poets, the true

masters of the art of love.