What I feel is no frivolous fourteenth day cliché. 
No way honey, no way!

I won’t speak those too-common words you expect.
That approach I vigorously reject.

No drugstore-card red-inked words that begin with “L”.
You giggle and grin. “What else?” You say. Well…..?

No bouquet of thorn-stalked flowers red, or peach, or pink.
“What then?” You muse. You’re confused I think.

Wondrous gazing at the diamond-sprinkled black night sky?
Nope. You pout befuddled. You wonder why.

Oh and no beating critical organs simply pumping blood.
A silly metaphor when my molten desires swirl in a fiery flood.

And certainly no moon tides, waves washing in and out.
For you are uniquely special I need to shout.

Darling I have waited for you far too long,
To paint our fusion in such a cliché riddled song.

Believing—waiting and waiting in my room,
Fearing the worst—fearing Cupid’s doom.

Oblivious to my pain you were dancing in the dark,
Offering lucky dancing partners your special spark.

Out of the arms of another, into those of one,
You were dancing, enjoying youth, and having fun.

Waiting for you I have been going wild inside,
Where is she? What to do? Why does she hide?

Then I spied you—unlikely place. You flirted. I engaged. We kissed. 
Tried your best to elude me—but Cupid has never missed.

And now? Well we are in bed, our joining all the talk,
Your supple young snake-like body riding my jutting cock.

Fiery coal-eyes burn, your silken hair long and black,
There is no in-between for us, nothing we together lack.

You whimper, claw my chest, bite, writhe, and then you moan, 
You buck, you grind and gyre, emit a feline guttural groan.

A scream! Pink nails gouge my skin. Your fire ignited expires.
How (without a single cliché) to express my desires?

I thrust hard into you. No cliché. Why? Because I must.
You murmur nothings in my arms, enveloped in my trust.

You have a hot temper. You’re jealous. Sometimes you’re crazy.
And all the other men you chide? Well I think they were lazy.

Your sacred scars? No they don’t lessen your beauty.
Each perfect imperfection is mine—I want YOU, not booty.

You have picked me? Yes I admit to feeling blushing pride.
A spectacular and most amazing woman at my side.

For this you want to bedazzle me with clichés in return?
Can you think on the fourteenth for that I burn?

No.

Do it all. Take me there. Clench your pussy tight.
Let us tangle in our amazing mating dance fight.

Show me a rainbow of colours other than red,
Straddle my hips, tie me to the posts; blindfold me on our bed.

Make this day one of teasing hot sweaty orgasmic delay.
Can I do this? Or this? Or that? Yes you certainly may.

Finally your eyes seek my matching pair and lock,
Your lips so sweet, so pink, plunder mine, no need for talk.

I drive. I thrust. My body heaves—I burn and explode:
You whimper, cry, whine, and simper: it’s my cock you rode.

In unison we burn, bound together we come: exhausted collapse,
A sweaty ball of flushed naked skin—please undo my straps.

And so now clinging limbs sated how should I conclude?
Is it time my darling that a fourteenth day cliché is cued?

Can I then say, “You are my Valentine”?
Perhaps you reply to say I am yours and you are mine.

Is such a simple cliché within the rules?
Or should this dreamer use other linguistic tools.

Ah you exclaim, Nicola will allow this one cliché, 
Since it’s February and the fourteenth day.

So nice to know, so nice to hear,
But let me declare—this is no cliché my dear!

Rather when I say
“You are my Valentine”
This is to describe
A thing intangible,
Without front or back
Without end or dimension,
Without geometry,
Something more precious
Than air,
Than water,
For in the joining of our 
Solitary selves,
In our lust, our ardour,
Among our playful delight
In the perfect silence
Of our room
Unnecessary words gone,
We fuse—one soul,
No gaps, no cracks,
We become singular
We become infinite.

Yes it may be a cliché 

To say—

But you really are “My Valentine”.