I am not a poet.

My words were never made for the masses,
Made to pry emotions from your heart.
Rhyme can sometimes leave me at a loss,
And my inkwell is more often empty than not.

I am not a poet.

I can write only what I know and feel,
Each poem I give a little piece of me.
Every line is just a wisp away from existence.
Each poem might just be the last I write.

I am not a poet.

Yet why do you feel like my muse?
Your eyes remind me of a thousand places,
Like sea glass glinting green in the hush of tide.
Your voice has its command over my pulse.

I am not a poet.

But poetry you are.
How else do I describe this feeling,
If not with flowery words and rhyme.
And yet no words can hold it right.

I am not a poet.

I would be lost if I were.
For if I give a piece of me,
It will always be here in this poem,
With You.

You long to return to a love you’ve never had.
A love that sits and wraps its arms around you—
Like a weighted blanket in the middle of the night.

The kind that seeps into a Sunday,
When the sun hits your shared coffee mugs just right.
The grocery run where his hand grazes yours,
And your heart skips like it’s never been touched that gently before.

The kind that leaves echoes.

You imagine them at the sink,
Brushing their teeth, half-laughing as they talk
Their voice, soft, tired, but loving—
And you smile too, even though no one’s there.

So here you are, chasing echoes—
Echoes that your soul remembers but you do not.
You can only imagine.

And still,
You leave the porch light on.
Just in case.

Growing old never seemed so bad.  
Sure, I pretend to moan and dread,  
My knee buckles and my back knots.  
Yet it’s another year of being alive.  

Growing old is a privilege,  
As another year around the sun  
Marks another year of growth.  
What else are we here for?  

Growing old is a privilege,  
Growing old together is a luxury.  

Growing old never seemed so bad.  
Yet I mourn the years we’ve lost to fate.  
Like a new book too precious to read—  
Too scared to see how many chapters are left.  

But books are never judged by their length,  
It’s by the way they change you.  
The way they mark themselves into you,  
Like wrinkles on skin.  

So worry not, take your time with fate.  
I’ll pull up a chair, a good book and coffee.  
And when you arrive, I’ll have a library—  
Of stories to share, wishing you had been there.