Flawed theory of forms (that philosophy lesson you slept through in school)

Platonic realism suggests
that what may be

(doesn’t really exist)

save as a reflection of the
perfect form.

I fear I’m on the wrong
side of realism, love,
because you’re so
damn beautiful
(in both realms)
that it’s hard to make
eye contact.

When you do gaze upon me,
I’m certain that I’m on the
wrong side, because
the true form could
never compete
with the image you
let shiver across
my sun-kissed shoulders

You make me feel like
I’m wearing a

sheer white dress

1940s style,
that trims my body,
like your touch
(so damn close),
and speaks to you
without words,
of all things sweet
and buoyant
and light,

over black,
lace
lingerie.


I’m reasonably sure
Plato was wrong.

Because that form
doesn’t exist anywhere,
save where a touch
of grey falls along
the creases
in the fabric of  
you and me.