To paint her

 A never-ending urge to submerge my body -
my hands, my feet, my head and my breast,
into the colossal can of coiling colors,
to paint reality into the canvas of her body.

But why do I wish to paint reality?

Reality is what you sense or feel,
but it fades away with time
as my gaze changes with time -
what seduces me now is
gone when the moment is gone.
So I want to freeze it, seduce it,
paint it and then frame it.

But how should I start?

To freeze reality is
to bake its soft nature - 
the water flowing,
the wind blowing,
on the infinite canvas
of her glorious body -
by dipping in the pool of colors,
and to paint myself.

But what's the nature of her canvas?

This canvas, though colossal,
is the beginning and end of my pursuits.
It's all I have, it's all I crave.
Though a part of this expanding universe,
it is infinite in some sort.
It's bounded but detailed like her body -
her fringes, wrinkles, bends, and moles,
each gaze at the abyss of these details,
gazes me back and asks - 
if I have really finished gazing her all.

As I make love with her,
I paint flowers, feathers,
stars, comets, constellations,
galaxies and all things gigantic,
on around her curves,
her folds and her bends,
her back, on her neck.
It all imprints, whatever I have got,
colors on my body on her body.
I paint all over her canvas -
the reality which all I know,
is now engraved on her.