I grant, I write of her with grandiose allusion,
with burning stars dancing in my eyes;
likening her to anything that might show
my awe of her, my need and magnanimous love.
However, I know too well she is only human
and this does not yet discourage me from her.
We are all, after all, only human
and our flaws and fault and idiosyncrasies
Are just our own crosses to bear
sometimes becoming the most beautiful
And endearing sufferings, perhaps.
I know her skin is just human flesh,
her warmth just evolutionary tactic;
I know her eyes are there for sight,
her slender fingers there for touch.
and I know still, that when I think of her
imagination will take flight
with skilful metaphor; expressions of my love.