My name was a
morning coffee secret you
keep between cupped hands.

There I lingered,
up until I went lukewarm
and then you poured me out

onto the ground upon discovering  
the bubbling champagne of her.

I feel strongly for a
boy with eyes the color of
bullets
and with biceps built strong
like bolts in the armor
of a tank.

He wears stains of dirt
on calloused hands from
years
of digging plots 6 feet down.
(He thought his name
would be on the tombstones.)

Behind a small smile
and a boisterous laugh,
the affliction rages on. He is the army
of one, battling against an enemy
he’ll see only in the reflection of
his dog tag.

I imagine- in the darkest shadows of midnight-
a garden enchanted by the magic of pixie dust.

Here, love is a blossoming rose eager to open
it’s petals; underneath, we are the soil, allowing it grow.

He* paints the setting sky with his bare hands;
Shades of orange bursting with the same
vibrancy as the life in his smile.
Crimson of a passion bleeding out of open wounds so
deep I believe his soul is fathomless.
Pinks like soft lips planting kisses along the curve
of a body he has yet to till.
Cerulean matching irises of eyes lighting up in
the sunshine he bestows through an
inescapable darkness.
A spectrum into existence by his design-
I tell him everything created is art.