To A Star-Crossed Woman Poem by Windsor Guadalupe Jr

To a star-crossed woman,
Who dangles wanly
As she is hoisted within the far seas
Of the turbulent skyline;
Do not whittle away.
I will search for you,
Even if this wuthering height
Quivers as I flex my arms,
Feeling the passion efflux
Through my veins in a train-like fashion.
To a star-crossed woman,
Whose face, I do not have a portrait of
Nor do I have her breath
That I keep inside my own.
Your sapid presence is furtive,
You are garishly bequeathed
And I relish upon my fantasies of you
In front of the mirror that conjures a hapless man
Of buoyant fanaticism.
And so to a star-crossed woman,
I would not want to make love to you.
I would not want to expose your body,
On the floor, naked, as if permitting me to fondle
Each of your pillars gladly.
Instead,
I would love to read poetry to you.
I would, and will tousle your hair
Onto different places –
I will tell you my life, with every rustling foliage,
Every abyss I have been on – the labyrinths that I have
Come to trifle with morose and a petulant nonchalance.
I would like to memorize everything about you:
Hair,
Dandy fingertips of seductive lacquer,
Scent of ethereal worlds and gardens,
Eyes and how splendidly hollowed they are,
The coarse salts of your supple skin,
Tell me what to memorize,
And I shall declaim with a passion
That begets nothing but your own.
And so to a star-crossed woman,
Whose name I shall come to recognize
Like the religion I hold piously,
Come to me in the most unexpected dates
And I shall rummage unto you –
The smitten callow child that I am.
Yet, until tonight,
You will remain star-crossed
And I will still be lull under the pallid moon.
Look at my languor! Look at my face of sullen wind.
You are star-crossed in the distance.
You will remain to be, until you are mine.