I fell in love with a poet,
a composer who sang his thoughts
I fear I hum the words he strums
Serenade, lullaby, his darling good night
His poetry heeds the universe and infinity
Forever is fairytale, forever there is hope
Surrealism is all he desires
Art is not perception, rather it touches the soul
Every inch of the poet is constellation,
not a speck of imperfection to my eyes
He knew what's in my heart
Synapse to synapse, untraced
The heartbeat chimes to the damsel who evanesced
Eternal, he churn and cling to her strings
Days, months, years
Endurance, indolence
I sit, I read, I decipher his thoughts
In hopefulness, someday,
the poet will devour me as his own.