Poetry with simple rhyme scheme
isn't really poetry at all.
It takes all the artistry of language,
and crushes their greatness
into something rather small.

It belittles the sharp peaks of your smile,
that peek through porcelain veils.
It takes the beauty of your eyes,
and brings them down to scale.

The rhyming ruins all seriousness,
true poets take in pride,
it leaves their work in ridicule,
though their emotions are implied.

It vastly understates
the warmth in your cheeks,
and incredibly discounts
the lions of your dreams,
making them seem weak.

That is why I will never write a poem
describing the perfection of you
in a silly little rhyme scheme;
that is what I shall not do.

I will, however, jest
at what rhyming cannot describe,
although it tries to do its best,
it falls by the wayside,

For limericks cannot contain
my pretentious heart and soul,
and cannot compare
to the magnificence you hold.

Because if I could contain your spirit,
in matters of stanzas and rhyme
my talents would be wasted,
this atrocity a crime,

But you make my writing worthwhile,
and give me ideas to muse,
instead of the dull and dread,
the pretender's butter and bread,
with none of my talents to use.

Each year for your birthday,
I'll get you a hundred balloons,
each one a different color
for every kind of face you make,
and tie them together
with locks of my hair.

And every time you sing,
I'll give you a glass jar,
with a pop top
and golden lid,
so that I can capture
the sweet honey
that drips from your teeth
when you open your mouth.

And every time it rains,
I'll give you a new pair of rain boots
that squeak and thump
awkwardly
with each step,
so you won't be afraid of puddles
ruining your khaki pants.

And each and every time
the world has been cruel,
leaving no room for your balloons
or jars,
or puddles,
I'll be there with white chocolate,
to sweeten the bitterness of their sting,

and globe,
with thousands of poems
written on every sea
and continent
to remind you
that you mean the world
to me,
and that the world
is full of love.

We stared at the ceiling as it blackened from the lights turning off,
and the air chilling with every breath from the A.C.
Inch by inch we moved closer to each other
because we thought it was what we were supposed to do,
but little did we know that with each nudge
our electrons were sending spark signals
way before our bodies even thought about touching.

Like iron and sulfur, we synthesized
moving into each other's lives,
and leaving our pieces behind us,
swapping stories and secrets
in the cover of nightfall
with roaring laughter,
while our heads made permanent impressions
on their downy and memory foam petals
in the garden of wishes
we created.

Constantly I was with you,
just as the shore is never without the sea.
I became your shadow,
and followed you to your room,
and back again,
through the drug cartels of Mexico,
to the blizzards that lie beyond The Wall.
You became my greatest adventure
and showed me what lay beyond the door
I was always too frightened to open.

You earned a doctorate in my mannerisms,
becoming an expert on each temper tantrum,
and each shining grin that you always brought about
on the gloomiest of Wednesdays
when I ran out of milk for my cereal
and overcooked your mac and cheese.

You embraced every flaw I had,
like the father welcoming home the prodigal son,
and came to love every scar I accumulated,
thirty-eight in total,
from the hordes of others,
almost too numerous to count on ten fingers,
that constantly left me with a sewing needle,
and a bottle of Elmer's glue
to mend from each tumble
of their careless hands.


Every jagged edge of mine that cut your palms,
and left nicks on your fingertips
was smoothed by the rough edges of your beard,
and through scratchy kisses
from chapped lips.
You became my greatest blessing,
as well as my greatest weakness,
so now I constantly crave your pale face
spattered with freckles
and beautiful laugh lines
that congregate around
the warmest brown eyes
I have ever seen.

And I thought I loved you then, but
it definitely was nothing like I love you now, because
now I wake up next to you,
I make both of us coffee, and
push open the curtains to let in sunlight.
And when I wake up next to you,
I don't hate Mondays as much anymore,
And when I wake up next to you,
I feel safe,
because through the valleys of your sleeping lungs
I found where I belong.
I found my home.

Sundays;
allow me to awaken
with the sun peaking from behind
a shy curtain
made of thin, black chiffon,
casting a halo
around your sleeping face
that tosses
and turns
with each dream.

They allow me to study
the mountains range
of your rib cage,
the wind swept hills
of your curls,
even the sharp cliffs
of your jawline,
and every warm valley
your body forms
while under cotton sheets.

They make the earth
hold her breath
for the briefest of seconds
as to not wake you
from your beautiful slumber.
And as my body molds
to your contorts,
the warmth of your skin
surrounds me
like the sea.

I am lost in you,
and lost to the morning,
lulled back into sleep
by the lapping of your heart
on the shores of my cheeks.

As I tuck my knees
to my right side,
sticking
to the smooth surface below
the cutoff denim fabric couldn’t cover

I tilt my head
and lean it back,
closing my eyes,
allowing the mixed smell
of tide water
and seat leather
to dance around my thoughts.

The warm night air
fills my lungs
with longing,
and wanderlust
as my lashes
kiss each other
with every flutter of my lids.

And as the cricket sing,
the salty spray of the ocean
fills my empty caverns,
elevates my soul,
and sweetens my spirits.
I am complete.

There is no wishing,
nor hoping,
nor dreaming for a better tomorrow;
just the contentment
of not knowing
which direction I face,
but the understanding
that I am going
somewhere.

Sleep is the stale breath
that leaks from your mouth.

It escaped out of my nostrils,
and found itself deep in your lungs,
granting you with its heavy eyes,
and vivid visions of wondrous places
far, far away, and far off.

It refuses to enter my being.
It treats me as a stranger,
or a sailor lost at sea;
just another poor soul
lusting for what it cannot obtain.

So sweetly sleep dances around your pillow
giving you dreams of lion taming,
to which you toss and turn valiantly,
and manage to shove me
to the desolate and sleepless
corner of the bed,
with no room for my lions,
or ships, or seas,
taking the covers with you.

I could never capture
the face of the one I love
with a paintbrush.

The thin strokes of midnight
which adorn his eyes by the hundreds
would never be fully justified
by my inartistic hand.

I could never capture
the blades of winter grass
that sprout from his face
and dot his cheeks,
bundling around his jawline
sporadically,

Nor the cluster of roses
that attach themselves
at his apples,
and around his nose.

Constellations
are strewn about his face
as if the stars had fallen on to
the snow covered hills
and valleys
that make up his visage.

Though he is not without blemish,
to me he is perfection;
as if God created him
from divine clay
and holy water,
and sent him to me
to place under my care and affection,

So when the porcelain cracks,
or the swirls of earth above his head
lose their shine,
I will be there,
with chisel and brush in hand
to fill in the crevasses
and repaint forgotten smiles,
and to remind him
that he is beautifully
and wonderfully made.