Kiss me like Klimt,

The way he did in the painting,

Where I mould into the sculpture of your arms,

Golden and warm,

Molten brown.

Surrounded in a fixed cape of gold,

Our bodies melt into the canvas,

Supported by a bed of crayon-coloured flowers,

I look and follow the eyes of the atlas.

Your soft nest of brown hair tingles the nape of my neck,

The way a bird spreads its wings for flight

as the sun sets.

I don’t know what love is,

Maybe I can settle for this,

A hug without a kiss on the forehead

I fly into the sun as Icarus.