Love Metaphor Poems | Examples

Masterpiece

She is the mural painted on barrio walls,
stories in her curves, rhythm in her calls.
Colors of abuela, the fire of the street,
a masterpiece rising where cultures meet.

But art needs a frame — firm hands, steady eyes,
men who don’t compete but safeguard the prize.
A frame holds the story, keeps memory tight,
protects from the weather, the dust, and the night.

Alone she’s the art, brilliance untamed—
but her power shines louder ’cause he is the frame.

Old And New Stars

Ashes scattering
As new flames are igniting.
I am no longer
Fleeing nor hiding from stars
Of my old constellations.

Twin White Lotuses

A pair of white lotuses floating atop green lilypads.
A rare occurrence for me and yet they are so out of my reach.
Just like a blooming love I can sense between me and thee.

Last Dance - TSF

Present
Flowers
Before
My hours
Fall in
Darkness
Rightly

You watch
Idly
Come near
With songs;
Sweet drink
Calming
Lightly

Hold back
These parts
From him
Who hides
In wind—
Hunter
Seeking

Close by, 
Black eyes 
Tighten
My heart
Repines,
The beat
Creaking

It Sounded Like You Were Trying To Evict The Words From Their Home On Your Tongue

I have been watering it for months—
the small black bulb in the cupboard
that I never let touch sunlight.
It swelled in the dark,
fed on steam from my cooking breath,
fat with the whispers I never spoke aloud.

I told myself it was only a seed,
a pebble in soil, nothing more.
I would open the door,
look at it once, and close it—
like checking the locks before bed.
It learned the shape of my glances.

But today, I reached in.
Today, I held it in my palm.
Its skin was slick as a fish
and when I pulled, the roots screamed up from the earth,
all tendon and white hair,
and the cupboard air smelled of rust.

You said it casually—
your mouth arranging the words
like setting a cup down on a table.
As if the syllables were a button
popped from a shirt, no one’s fault.

I felt my chest open—
not like a door,
but like a letter slit with a knife.
Paper-heart curling, bleeding ink.
You were already talking about something else,
your voice trailing petals across the floor.

I sat very still,
the bulb still in my hand,
its black head beating against my pulse.
I did not crush it.
I only held it tighter
until my fingers forgot they could let go.

Either I've Seen You Or I Want To, How Could I Be Mad At That?

The horizon is a blade—
it glints whether I run toward it
or watch it withdraw.
Each dawn splits me open,
spilling a slow trickle of salt,
as if the sea is feeding me to itself,
one grain at a time.

I know the undertow’s handwriting—
it pulls not to drown,
but to measure how far my lungs will stretch.
Even in absence,
the shore presses its ghost lips
to the soles of my feet,
branding me with wet fire.

The days arrive like heavy-winged birds,
falling or flying—it makes no difference.
Either I am lifted
or I am stitched to the air by wanting.
Both keep me in motion.

So tell me—
how could I curse the water
when even the ebb feels like an arrival,
and every hunger it leaves behind
is proof my compass still works?

I Go To Seek A Great Perhaps, as That Is What I Was After Too

The days crack like porcelain
under the heel of my wanting.
I am a spine of restless birds,
feathers slick with salt and early light—
my mouth tasting the metal
of doors I have not opened.

They ask me why.
Why walk without a destination?
Why carry a compass
if you don’t believe in north?

I tell them—
the road does not need an ending
to be worth taking.
Some skies are meant to be looked at,
not arrived under.

I keep moving
because stillness feels like rust,
and the wind has a way
of remembering my name.

The Great Perhaps is not a prize—
it’s the taste of rain
before the cloud bursts,
the echo that lingers
longer than the voice.

If you need a goal,
call this my goal:
to know how a streetlamp hums at early morning,
to count the freckles on a stranger’s knuckles,
to find out if the moon
is the same shade of bone in every city.

I have no anchor,
only her pulse like a lantern in my palm.
We are marrow and tinder,
always burning toward a horizon
that refuses to hold still—
and I love her for it.

My Admiration For A Hand-Woven Tapestry

Each thread hums —
drawn by patient hands,
dyed in storms and thaw.

The base is pale as morning frost,
fibers holding winter’s quiet breath.
Across it, ribbons of shifting hues
wind like rivers —
green bending to blue,
violet bruised into pink.

At the center, twin knots gleam —
changing under every flicker of light,
tidal glass or meadowstone,
never the same twice.

Edges fray softly,
not from neglect
but from touch repeated, cherished.
The whole cloth sways with a living pulse —
a work forever becoming,
never complete.

Hostile Architecture

The barriers to my affection
Are iron gates
With spikes that impale anyone
Who dares to perch too long

Slow Burning Star

Our spark was a magenta-aqua gradient supernova.
A bright flash of love so nearly blinding it was eye-opening.
Our talks echo in the chambers of my inner cosmos.

Caught unaware

I wasn't expecting the oleander tree this morning
You seized the chance of my being unaware 
The flute, however, didn't falter in its whistling 
Shedding all clouds, the sky became bare 

29 July 2025

The Cartographer and the Sea

He drew maps for a living.
Not of roads, but of promises
Soft lines where her laughter once lived,
tiny arrows
where her eyes used to point
when she couldn’t say stay.

She was the sea
Ever folding into herself,
a hymn of salt and leaving.
No harbor could hold her,
no anchor dared ask.

He traced her tides in silence,
built cartographies of could-have-beens,
and marked in inkless ink:
here be ghosts.

She tried, once,
to live on land
to breathe stillness,
to fold her waves into windows.
But the sea is not a creature
meant for ceilings.

So she left.
And the world kept spinning
in the wrong direction.

In some other verse, 
some bend of time, 
she learns to stay.
He forgets to wait.
But the ending,
like gravity,
refuses to rewrite itself.

Every love story
has a map.
Theirs had no destination.
Only a compass
that spun
and spun
and spun.



--
April 2024

swarovski sunsets hiku

       lilac  h u  s   h   of  love ~

                                                     
                                                               s             i
                s   t  a                                           k             e        s
    heals              r   s     in swarovski 
                                                                                                             
                     sunset sorcery

Fulcrum of a rose

My Heart ~
the pump station of my love,
my affection.
Like petals of a rose—
the fulcrum of my fragrance...
attracting kindred souls to my life,
like bees and butterflies to a bloom.

Rip my heart open—
you won’t find anything else
but goodness and kindness ~
the fabric that clothes my being.

When broken—
the pain is sharp and immense,
like a twisting knife
ripping a soul bare ~
bloodless,
yet endless,
like a drumbeat
without a drummer.

But it can harden—
stony, cold,
devoid of warmth or grace,
vengeful and wicked...
when pierced by a heartless mind.
Then it flows with invisible venom ~
clouding the brain like a purple haze,
killing, maiming...
capable of every evil.

Like roses—
with a range of wildly different scents ~
so is my life: love, hatred, joy—
kindness and wickedness all imbued.
Oftentimes, it sweetly lingers...
other times, it odiously putrefies.

Waiting In The Metaphorical Rain

You may rain on my parade,
But I will never end my crusade
As long as you let me try to persuade,
Just know my romance is no charade.

You may doubt you can reciprocrate
But I will still show you what I can create:
Unconditional love means I can never hate
While you may continue to leave me in wait.

You showed maybe there's something inside
You made me put aside my guard and pride
You made me feel so alive with such stride
Your lovemaking brought forth a new tide

You may be unsure and questioning,
But I am ready to be the one listening
To all of what you are willing
To freely express even if it is unfeeling.

• Short Love Metaphor Poems
• Famous Love Metaphor Poems
• Best Love Metaphor Poems
• Read Love Metaphor Poems
• Long Love Metaphor Poems
• Love Metaphor Quotes