My ignorance of you is bliss,
a power so sweet and hot.
Infatuation I am made for,
reality I am not.
My stomach fills with pleasing fire,
my mind with gossamer threads.
We roam until the sun comes up,
then tumble into bed.
My fingertips don’t need to know you,
each inch is already mine.
I can fix and mould and shape you,
my beloved, my divine.
This is rapture with no burnt edges,
no awkward truths or citric wedges.
Just me and my cut-out in all it’s glory,
Just my sentence, forget the whole story.