Italy

Let me worship you like classical majors do Rome.

You’ll be the Sappho to my Catallus,

my muse, and my drive, and my praeceptor amoris,

I’ll be Echo or possibly Paris.

Perfectly paws off while I enjoy your complexion,

I can hold the mirror for your perfect reflection,
so we can both admire our own predilections.
Cuz my affection will make you conceited,

but don’t even think of comparing you to Venus,

for you’ll think you’re a greater candidate
for believing you’re sought after, wanted, one to die for.

You would be the Helen I introduce to my home,
but your face alone could destroy my city.

So maybe I’ll exalt you like Da Vinci did veins,

your rein worthy of the name H Christ.

You rule over my brain like paint sways over canvas,

my devotion my greatest compulsion,

believing in your beauty my greatest savior,
desiring you a part of my nature.
I don’t care whether we get to go down as lovers,
or even if I will ever suffice.