the way your arm would wrap around me
like a snake with a mouse.
I was never really certain if you were going to
embrace me
or
crush me to an oblivion.

that honesty was the best kind of poetry.
So here it is. My kind of poetry
but your kind of honesty.
I am so
infinitely,
undeniably,
irresponsibly,
head of heels in love with you.

Travel, trouble, music, art,
   A kiss, a frock, a rhyme--
I never said they feed my heart,
   But still they pass my time.

Would he?* Probably not.
Maybe he can't find comparison to that which he adores.
Maybe he can't write a poem, maybe he can't find the words.
Maybe he can't explain that what entrances him.
But maybe he is more?
Maybe he finds beauty in itself, not comparison.
Maybe he finds that being there for her is better than saying it.
Maybe he listens to that voice, and cares for what she says.
Would he? No.
He would do more.

I hope you realize the mistake
you made
when you broke a poet's heart

My heart is an ink well
and you are my feather pen

-h.w.

I see we sit for tea again.
To be honest with you
I thought your visits had become
More natural.
As our plastic pink cups
Were replaced with China
I see now we've just have grown a more mature understanding.
You come as you like,
as I and others clean your dishes.
Only to come back to you
Pouring another cup of pennyroyal tea.
Each year
Three pasting now
you've poured from that ***
I surely thought you had to be done with that 8th serving.
The *** seems bigger every time
you pour
now you've taken the 9th.
You've over stayed your welcome.

There’s pills, potions
but nothing truly can cure my emotions

© Matthew Harlovic