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.
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