if he were to write me a love poem, would it breathe
like the quintessence of begin? would it live
as the moon to the sea – as precise as the art
of expanse along kismets journey, and all horizons linear?
would it wind-wash and rush my untouched
expanse, as a field soft and wild, exhaling through hair?
would you hear all of my hurt as it crashes to floors; crashing
through my glass floors, formed by years of perfected neglect;
(reverberating through centuries of cause and effect)
or would it die in my hands;
turn to dust
to read his undying words, such as my deepest imaginings
can conjure, would be as if the very sun had come to rest beneath
my bosom, shining exponentially forth every wish and dream i have
ever harbored within the safe haven of my yearnings, since long
before the birth of time itself!
o’, words given from the depths of my hearts deliberate daydreams,
from the vastness of your perpetual being,
would surely render my mind useless, striking my fluttering
body numb, and alive all at once!
if my love ever wrote me a love poem, i would answer
by way of warm lips on eyelids, (weary from longing
and unrequited need) gliding them
down his fair face, kissing years of spent tears into the oblivion that is
no more (the culmination of death and the sweet realization
of answered prayers), and yet
i would no sooner ask him to write me a love poem, then I would
expose my longing to receive one.