I did stumble in my dreams
on you
again,
yesterday.
It never ends. You seem to be
unfinished
love,
like
some form of art.
And not just you.
Sometimes I find
only footprints
going in and out
of my pages.
(Am I going insane?)

And then there are
the good ones
where
the pirates of my dreams
are sailing
in bottles of wine
between your breasts,
singing silly songs
about love
and carrying
love letters
and barrels
full
with my fines kisses
from my lips
to yours,
but never reach
that far.
They drown
in the drips of sweat
rolling down your neck,
They aren't
as smart
as they were.
They love.

I never know what to say,
what words
fit better.
I've tried to find,
but the poets I read
don't know
what I need
to trade
for a minute
of kisses.
Maybe dreaming
and writing poems
is not the best way
to make love.

Junkyard Of Muses

http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/the-best-way-to-make-love/