Too often have I thought of
how my mind can be so obsessed,
with the grace of your love,
which keeps a fool like me possessed.

Is it the palm of your hand,
which holds truth in it like a palmist?
Or your feet in the sand,
leaving traces where we once have kissed?

Surely, it must be something visual,
something which will lose its attraction
when the time carves its signs in thee.

For if it is not palpable like a key,
I will never unlock your perfection
and will be obsessed perpetual.