Your face is the corona on the sun

Your face is the corona on the sun:
blinding, but only a fragment of the whole.
Your skin is wasp paper, silk wound and spun
in supernovas. You are formed like gold,
elemental and unaware that one
moment with you is all time put on hold,
and, like creation, the urge to become
more is a need you make fierce in my soul.

But I can only tell you this with words
and echoes that resemble other things.
Infinite poems, a hundred songs heard
before. But words create their own meanings,
and everything this poem cannot say
is hidden in language. You are the day.