Poetry is a just a mechanism
It is falsely aged paper
 used to wrap the mundane and
mimic some borrowed aesthetic;
Some flimsy, pastel-ed fairyland

He is not what my poetry says he is.

He’s not the ocean, or the moon’s sighs

There's no universe in his eyes

How unfair, to paint him as more
 than a man
when he is nothing but.

But I was a pocket of restless words 
that sought an extravagant form

So when I beheld him, my seams shivered and the whisper came:

“So be it.”