I, Of All Poem by Windsor Guadalupe Jr

I am infinitely enamored to
Your hair of tangerine locks,
With the smoke not of burning ember,
But of a blazing rush of tulips and gardens

If there is anything as contagious as
Timely aged wine, then perhaps,
It is your eyes, the indulgent
With a touch of the stark sky in between

Your fervent caress enthralls the soul, assuming knots,
What these mere hands alone can't,
For the touch is as eager,
As the heart that speaks fonder of fanciful shining things

Your skin scintillates endlessly,
Making the stars envious,
And the moon, pretentious as ever,
Feigning a glimmer that you can effortlessly thwart

And oh, the laugh,
How can I ever bury you within tears?
The chortling, of the ecstatic splendor
I still haven’t got any of your world

And the time,
The time that ignores the future
And abolishes the past,
Thus serenading the present, first of many last

Then why you, lady?
And why me, insipid one?
Of all the stories that fabricate the truth,
Pray tell dear, why me, and why of all, you?