Loving you so long my love
has outlived similes
and metaphors.
I love you: that’s that.
I mean, that’s not “this”
or “like this.” 
Only I keep on thinking
You’re my second skin.
And just like hitting the slots,
all the other seconds
come tumbling out,
frisking like spring lambs:
second fiddle, second sight,
Second-Hand Rose,
second banana, second string,
second helpings,
my-seconds-will-call-on-you-in-the-morning,
I second that (e)motion,
manufacturers’ seconds,
Shakespeare’s second-best bed,
but they aren’t what I mean.
Second skin’s not
spare, some extra sock
or glove that’s backup
for a favorite pair. I can’t
spare you, not for a second,
and I can’t talk about
what looms, so vast,
so close a thing being parted
it’s past reckoning
or words weighed.
You might as well ask
Marsyas to describe being flayed.