you're
sitting on a ledge,
feet dangling in the fall air
and you won't ******* shut up
because you're with Her
and you feel like a
star:
consuming hydrogen,
creating helium.
no one ever
warned you about how
others would
step into your heart
like they owned the place
(and now she did)
looking around, nodding,
"yes yes, this'll do, but
what's the rent like?"
no one ever warned you
that you'd let them stay for free.

"write poetry for me" she said
but how do you
write poetry for someone
whose splendor eclipses
the magnificence of the sun?
trying to encapsulate
You
in words would be akin to
"caging" a lioness
in a prison of fine china.
so perhaps instead
of trying my hand at writing
about you
I will simply say this:
I Like You A Lot

you've always been
"rough around the edges,"
seeing lines in coloring books as
suggestions and
scribbling wherever you **** pleased
(your handiwork adorns
countless bibles in two churches,
innumerable physics worksheets,
and the walls of
one bathroom stall in your high school,
which has probably been
repainted
by now)
I'm sorry I couldn't smooth your edges,
but I'm glad I did not.

I don't think you know
how madly in love
I am
with you;
I can imagine you clearly
in a ****** white tee
smiling in the sunlight
compelling me to you
like you are the earth
and I am the moon.
(but the moon will never
touch the earth,
as I will never
touch you)

princess,
don't you know your castle is a prison?
you may live comfortably,
but you live chained.
let me take you away.
I cannot promise you luxury;
I can only promise you love.
I know that this
[love]
is a trifle to trade kingdoms for,
but I ask all the same,
palm upturned and hand outstretched.
let me take you away.
I promise to make it
worth your while.
(I promise to make it
up to you)

you were never an artist;
I'm sorry but it is true.
once, you sketched me
(sharpie on loose leaf, 2013)
and while I was touched by the gesture
[labor of love that it was]
it really looked more like your older brother.
now, your art is shared for mere
moments
(stylus on snapchat, 2014)
but you are still no artist.
you are an auteur, a lover, a curator,
finessing your homages to your youth
[pokemon, zelda, batman]
you may not be an artist
but I love you all the same.

I'm entranced,
your hair gleaming like copper
in the summer sun.
(I could swear you never
looked so good)
your laugh is floating on the wind, like
infant arachnids with silk parachutes.
(I could swear nothing ever
sounded so lovely)
your freckled shoulder is exposed to the world,
dappled and *flawless
(Atlas himself had not
shoulders so strong)
(I could swear I was
in love with you)