If you can untie the knots of your brains
And take every neuron synapsed with serotonin
And throw them back on your senses
If you take that sweet spot of your orgasm
And stitch on your lips
[Then kissing would be the shortest point to brink, to overflow]
And still, you go through pretenders
To find the muse, who settles on your soul
With the delicacy of a butterfly
And something beautiful is found, when the butterfly molts her wings
And makes the leaf, a pact of virtue
A symbiosis of soul and flesh.
You will then paint a portrait of the muse in your heart
That will stay still as she wilts and ages.
A portrait that will be your one magnum opus.
A sessile love with a million choreographies
But only one bed.