an old poem

when she talks she's scattered stars compared to the constellations in your eyes the veins on her eyelids like small showers against your thunder storms her lips like mere daffodils against your budding rose petals and my heart twinges every time we kiss because all im tasting is a small flame compared to the forest fire i felt with you and I hate comparing her to you not saying that she is less of a work of art she is beautiful canvas but i not her artist my hands feel no familiarity in her slopes my chisel can't trace her curves she is a work of art but her strokes do not belong to me than again i don't think you were ever mine either

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