A Strange Attempt at a Form Poem, and it will need lots of work

A love poem is a poem of pursuit.
Each word catches your
earlobe, tries to pull
you down
into a body
a biology to pick apart.

A mouse roams your eyes in pursuit
of the cream of your
pupils. What pull
the morning has on the down
of your body.
Already I'm falling apart.

All this searching, pursuit
of your hair, your eyes, your
hands that are gravity's pull.
Look down:
a painting of your body:
no lines, just thickness, which is a part

of weight & measures, of pursuit.
Listen to me when I tell you your
suns are hands. Don't they pull
space together, up, down?
And the body?
Isn't it space too? Expanding apart?

I suppose I can't know the science of your movements. Yet my pursuit
is wholly good. Your
weight lies in what pull,
like water, distributes down
into every nook in the body.
There are days I'd like to spend inside one, if only a small part.