you are a poem,

making my verse free

and kissing me in our secret cadence,

you are everything beautiful

and everything likened to beauty

 

your heart beats out in couplets

profound and mesmerizing, the slow fall

of your breathing enough to keep me reading

forever, as you rest like a facedown book

on my chest, tiny and sincere,

your eyes two haikus of lash,

brown, lash— deep and tranquil,

the kind of form

 

that settles perfectly

into mine, enja

mbing and completing me,

a line that speaks to the darkest

 

parts of me and renders them with light;

my perfect rhyme without expectation,

never forced— your natural, unadorned allure

one of life's mysteries that despite an indispensable

stream of words, can never be described

or hope to be described, except in metaphor;

a half-truth that can never quite capture

the constellations that freckle your eyes.

 

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