How do I love you? I don’t have a clue.
It’s quite the mystery, I must confess.
I’d cite the ways were it not hopeless to,
yet even so, at times, it’s fun to guess.
It’s that you’re, well, you’re absolute perfection;
the sweetest, dearest, kindest soul alive.
A beauty, certainly; there’s that connection
between your looks and how endorphins thrive,
in fact, go haywire at the merest mention
of you by someone else. I hide my blush
not very well, distracting their attention
as best I can, while conscious of the rush
of blood to my extremities, my heart’s
confusion, my head’s ambush by other parts.
This originally appeared in Dogwood 2005
