The bureaucracy of Love compels me to become an applicant,
I stand in the hope-soaked line of faceless nameless suitors,
I patiently fill and refill the dreamdust coated forms in verses and prose.
They all look like carefully left behind scraps of paper for lovers of cafes.
I sit on the mahogany desks and on tables of woods I don’t know or like,
They make the soft beautiful sounds against my knuckles that I read about,
I feel letdown, unworthy, disappointed yet again by the time’s passage,
I am yet to know music or through it you, but the desks hide my shivering knees.
All I want is to embed the monogram on my soul but you and I, our names share initials,
Even if I did let my soul be scarred, who is to know, what name is it, yours or mine?
Only the one who will carve or singe those letters or perhaps not even him,
And so I thought, maybe first you can rip my to shreds, flay my heart.
Create by demolition, cut in ways only your fingers, long and smooth on a tiny palm, can,
Slashed and stripped in to ribbons wavering along the same lines as your lovely hair,
Leaving a gaping hope, a grey oozing puddle, bubbling with a heap of boiling tar,
The exact shape and size of your eyes, from when I saw them when you were about to leave.
And in return, I ask for so much more, to let my hands claim and hold your wrists, forever.
In return, I want to let my head fall hopelessly, as only in love, on your ribs,
In return let me singe you with traced poems through my fingertips on your skin,
But most of all, let the lips tired of reciting this poem rest for an eternal moment on your forehead….