In iambic lines
you describe me
from head to toe,
but your volta
fails to reveal
who I really am.
Where's the dance
of my fingertips,
the sensuality
of my berry lips,
or the shy luring
of my full hips?
It seems I exist
in your sonnets
for the loneliness
of solitary poets
you slightly tease
and taunt aslant.
How will they know
the olive of my skin,
my shaking thighs,
their concealed sin,
the joy of my arms
when I slowly spin?
I don't see the smile
of my face you hide
in all your poems,
so I shall now elope
with this troubadour
who sings my name.