If this was a love poem
I’d wind your virtues round my fingers
Like wedding rings
And compare your beauty
To some sort of magisterial
Corner of nature
I’d write about ‘time’s winged chariot’
And I’d send you Sonnets
Cross-cut across desks -
Paper aeroplanes.
If this was a love poem
I’d find all these pretty little parallels
Between you and I
And I’d join our constellations of freckles
With ink chains and metaphors
Until we too enjoyed Paris
In the starlight
Or could afford each other
Rather than flowers
But I won’t write you love poems
Because we studied them for too long
In English class
And wrung all the enjoyment out of them
Like inked sponges
And you said you hated poems
Because they were never written for you
So instead I’ll write about how all I can really think about
Is that I preferred your hair before you got it cut.

Define perfect.
Is it a pretty face, nice hair?
Is it thin as a rod, or ripped with muscles?
Is it smart, witty and brilliant?
Is it funny and personable?
Is it friendly and kind?
Is it honest and true?
Is it in the way you walk, the way you talk?
Is it in your nature, in your core?
Is it inherent or attainable?
Is it even real, or just an illusion?

There's a girl in my mirror.
She's there whenever I look
but
she never looks the same
and
I don't ever recognise her.

I wish she'd crawl back to
whichever ****** ward she
came from.

Love never dies -
but people do,
and that's so much worse.