I want to be a sentence you revise,
and bask beneath your renovating stare;
to turn myself to text, and taste the care
of your incisive mind and lively eyes.
A book would be a suitable disguise.
You’ll look for comma splices to repair
at first, but several pages in I’ll snare
your savvy laugh in satisfied surprise.
I want to be the clever phrase that draws
your eyes into that iridescent smile.
Seeing it repunctuates my heart.
The brilliance of your independent clause,
the grammar of your happiness, can style
any random moment into art.