I 

He caramelised his fingertips,
dripped them into a chakra bowl,
laid it on her doorstep
beneath the blanket of a star cluster.

II

He climbed five hundred flights,
base camped beneath her eyes
in the morning, she found
a splice of silver crampons
inches from the summit.

III 

He abducted a dozen slum pigeons,
whitewashed their wings,
spruced them up proper.
Taught them to roll their R's
as they whisper her name
from the yew tree and the wires.

IV

He tried to txt her,
but his fingertips were murder.

V 

He reached in,
took a platitude of soul
that shimmied in the petri-dish.
Labelled 'culture of arousal A'
it sits beside the cucumber.

VI

He catapulted patchouli scent
through the heart of a nimbus cloud
then sewed the sweetest love lament
into the moisture shroud.
She felt it was corny. 

VII 

He made eye contact.  A thousand
yard stare that traced her spine and
entered just below the cotton.
She turned, almost a smile,
as he melted into tarmac.

VIII 

He lay within metres of her face. 
Crushed stone, blacktop, macadamned.
Two yellow lines pinned his spine
permanently in place.

IX 

He considered giving up.
A hundred billion fish in the sea
and all that.  But she was a
Sunrayangel fish,
which don't even exist. Do they?