Poets dream, they always do
about the impossible made possible
within stanzas and words
they think they weave magic into routine
and move hearts like the mellifluous motion of honey
dense sweet and sticky
connecting one chest to another

Poets claw through the mundane
to find the shimmering light of drama
the stirring stick, with the tumultuous traits

They cannot settle for the norm
they find it deformed
for when that happens
they reach for toxins
to remedy
the normality

When I hear your voice in isolation
my whole house sways to your godly presentation
that voice now has a different kind of appreciation
when it's the only thing that sends my heartbeats
into constant vibration

It's not the word nor the caption
it's the sound that's now given in ration
to switch on a photographic imagination
of the value of a throwback life, seen through an application

Send me your voice
I am done with pictures and links
bring back the call
the call
of you

I got a taste of what being loved felt
it was all nice
until he spoke
and broke the rose-colored glasses
that covered days
with
him

I threw my heart at you
when my words
failed to move
you

Today I lost something I never had
and it hurt even more than when I did

What intrigues me
is how every woman
wears her "woman"
beautifully

He asked me to stop asking him about loving me.