Crazy Lady, humour, beat poetry

I should like to meet my one some time. Not necessarily to spend the rest of my life with her but for perhaps some start in our serial episode - the first tentative footfalls and stumbles on our shared road. I want her to grace me with her sublime divine presence. Possibly her life is chaos and makes no sense. Though that wouldn't prevent me giving her some softly spoken gem that she could carry with her, treasure, keep safe and think about while she finds futility in subsequent temporary men. I'd really like to spend a night with her; even though I have little to offer, to caress her soft skin, to hold her close and issue that little touching remark, I was fantasising about, in the dark of this context - while she can feel the rhythmic heaving of my chest and my breath on her neck. Above all I'd like to look into her eyes, to know their colour and stop short of that point where I'd overwhelmed her and softly speak these ideal words that she would remember forever. Though it has to be said I don't feel that these hopes are really very real because I've never been one of those blokes who knew the difference between what to conceal or reveal with these crazy ladies who dash to and fro: vividly fading under the too frontal attacks of my inept serenades which seem, with hindsight, to come in too enthusiastic waves.