Acute.

The face - blithe, typically tickled pink,

she sinks, in ink, a bit out of sync.

Untrusting, she's next on my pepper stage,

titillates, thrills in merry language.

So much for those salad days wherein,

when satiated, we lay elated, 

immaculately poised, flooded and outdated,

drafted in sentences, solemnly tempted.

But back then, an overdose of punctuation did delight,

as you disliked this silly exercise and,

when we'd slowly recite, it got impolite. 

so stop bicker, quieten, as now I alone rewrite.

I scrawl every verse that hit a crestfallen note,

each woebegone quote, that you'd connote.

A melancholic display, relentlessly piquant,

as you'd foment, every surprise element. 

Crease.

Just the woebegone me, silently;

tracing you cerise, in scornful melancholy.

Within such clamor, canvas won't matter,

the ink dries grey, amidst dismal chatter.

A listless self - crestfallen, a bit crisscrossed, 

I accost myself, rattled and lost.

This harmless watercolor, equally piquant;

with corrupt expression, I make confront.

Herein she runs riot, unhurriedly slaying herself;

her wilting frame, barren against my caramel shelf.

Arrant.

The worn forlorn, looks have cried,

allure aside, it slips and hides.

Foment, chide, and let it ease,

she asks nothing, I stagger and freeze.

A broken bone, excitement will drip,

stumbling lips and lost courtship.

Running my fingers through her wrists,

I fold across, her fortress like fist,

she's submissive, for I won't resist;

now caving in, she insists we persist.

 

Agony, severely anoint with shades

and paints we should've dispel have fell,

within which she's as spoilt for choice, 

as vacant walls with venerable pastel.

So pipe down, drown someplace afar,

undo your coat, love steadily chars.

It scars, while its carcass mutely ruins,

wanes, ebbs, and scuttles as her skin,

which avers of how she wins, unrest's,

lest she suggests it bests my protest.

Skid and slide, as this melancholy shall

ribbon hope, in sotto-voce, make away,

into the delay which held us close,

wherein I yearn for you to stay.

Nerves! You submit into despair,

as scattered words make verbs rare;

and you remit in helplessness,

a forlorn pulchritude you wear...