If shoulders could paint, yours would create a Monalisa of my face.
If pillows could calculate, ours would sum up all our tears together.
If lips could fuss, yours would about all the times I've laid mine on them.
If eyes were paparazzi, yours would sell footage of me being vulnerable.
Could the moon tell tales, she'd tell on our naked escapades under her gaze.
Had our couch speech, it'd bemoan all our evenings on it cuddled.
If your rose flower were a studio, it'd replay all the unintelligible lyrics I made you sing through it.
Were bossoms x-rays, yours would produce side profiles of my head on it.
Could kisses germinate then dear you'd be my walking plantation!