If you were poetry
Then I don't exist,
And if I don't exist then
Neither did you and this
Is a lie.

We are only lovers,
The flesh of the lips
Tendered together for hopeful kisses
But not to be alive in
A melancholic grace of days.

And there is the other,
That which is the world
Of two lovers in the grinder's
Days together in this struggle.

And another which speaks silently
From the ears of a listener
And takes refuge in
Something else away from love.

And the other
Which is the word written,
So that you know you are not poetry,
Only the verse of words magnified
From a hopeful wound.

Once upon a time she believed
with every ounce of her heart
in the myth and legend of better.

times when I feel awfully low
and all I want to do is embrace you
and bury my face in your shoulders
and feel your nape
and your back
and the curve at the back of your waist.

Just the thought of your smell
and your touch
and the tingling I feel
when my skin meets yours
is enough.