Joys of Imperfection (rewrite of a love poem)

In these sacred moments  
we celebrate all that is,  
or was,  
or might one day be.  
 
This ancient sacrament of love  
is birthed from her pure spirit  
meeting my less-than-pure desires.  
 
Her honest eyes are bright and clear,  
predicting a hopeful future.  
Mine are clouded with ambition,
intoxicated by the lovely mass swaying against my manic intrusions.    
 
Yes, I love her, but why does lust weigh so heavily, fouling my best intentions?
In her smile there is sincerity, but I see lips that might wrap me in ecstasy.  
Her eyes, normally filled with kindness, gaze anxiously at the darkness where my hardened flesh enters her most sacred space.  
I taste the honey dust of body powder before resting my lips against her warmth, blind to the miracle that these breasts will someday sustain new life.  
 
I feel her eyes on mine as the moment arrives.  
She reads it in my face with sadness,
that euphoric instant her body fully satisfies my animal lusts.
 
Our joined torsos cease their striving and fold like fallen trees uprooted by a shared storm. In the silence, I feel the urge to speak. I mouth "I'm sorry," but the light is dim and I catch myself. "I love you," I say to the faceless shadow beside me.

Nothing in life is perfect, but what joys might be found in imperfection!