I only want to slowly,
trace my fingers
on your pristine surface
and paint invisible pictures on it,
because I am afraid
that my fingers are not skilled enough to procure
what my mind has created
and while I do know exactly what I want my result to be,
I do not know how to achieve it;
I am ignorant of where my hands must press down on you
with all the might they can fathom
and where my fingers must only gently dab,
with a thin blanket of translucent colour;
and so I resort to closing my eyes
and pretending that the tips of my fingers
and my nervous perspiration
it is the only way
I shall ever allow myself to stain you,
for I am certain that i am not worthy of you.
No, you belong under the dexterous touch
of capable hands,
qualified to do justice to their selection
from the plethora of landscapes
that you could otherwise be adorned with.
Love, you are a blank canvas
only waiting to be kissed
with the right colours
and I have no right
to subject you to my delinquency.
May I touch you?
That is all I should to do.