once upon a time I dreamed
of me with you, and you with me,
and all I knew was wanting to be yours
but time had passed, the flame grew cold,
while you sought for another soul,
and in that moment, God closed all the doors.
still, every time I passed your way
and saw you smiling every day
and knew there was no chance that you'd be mine,
I wished you all the happiness
(I knew that you deserved no less)
but something deep inside of me still pined.
I prayed that it would go away,
that someone else would come my way,
and others did, but still you caught my eye:
the way you worked, the songs you breathed,
the kindness you would give to me;
and all this time I just kept asking, "why?"
asking why, because I found
that even when you weren't around,
the thoughts of you, they lingered in my mind.
and even once those thoughts were gone,
you were still the very one
that my heart returned to after all this time.
now here we are, two years removed-
from freshman year and wanting you,
to holding you between my arms that night.
and I looked into your eyes and knew
that my heart was complete with you,
and next to you, my world was warm and right.
I knew I'd caught a million stars
to keep with me inside my heart,
no matter what the distance or the time.
and nothing now can take away
or grant a greater wish for me,
'cause finally, I get to call you mine.

your voice-
my choice
of poetry.

"at the touch of love," says he,
"each man becomes a poet."
but some men rise above.
where, then, lies
the final line
between poetry as we know it
and the man whose heart
has been victimized by cupid's bow?
and where do we draw the line
between what we feel
and what we know?
is there a line,
whether blurred or fine?
perhaps. for though the words that leave my pen
can tell the who and why and when,
poetry is the art
of touching a heart and then
portraying it in sounds or rhymes or letters.
but love is still better-
for love is the music that poetry speaks.
love is the fire where we warm our shiv'ring feet.
she's the song the birds sing
every morning.
love is the reason behind a poet's pen-
love lost, love found, love forbidden.
perhaps the great philosopher
was on to something true:
you are the lines of poetry
when love touches you.