Blushing

What cosmic sweet nothings are whispered, 
softly, and lovingly into the ears of the sky
to make it blush such a rich magenta
as the sun rises and falls?

What words of love, 
or delicate, yet unsuspected kiss
does the sun bestow upon her 
that she should turn such shade? 

Aye, but a blushing sky is only half as magnificent
as the delicate rose hued cheeks of a lady. 
Her coy smile setting her face in a pose
so timeless and pulchritudinous 
as a pre-Raphaelite oil on canvas. 

How I long to brush those rouged cheeks
with my rude, unworthy hand. 
How much I want to embrace that timeless beauty
and absorb the warmth emanating from her soul
and ease the freezing of my own shattered icicle heart. 
So that I, like the sky, may feel kissed by the sun. 
And hear those same words that make our cerulean canopy
turn pink, and flushed with arousal.