I cannot say you are beautiful.
I cannot compare your eyes
to stardust or nebulae
or say your voice is as soft and delicate
as lace.
Although you are my whole universe,
you are not my whole universe
and saying so would be an insult to space.
People are not the beautiful.
Neither inside or out.
You are not a complex planet
or a system of stars.
You are human.
You are broken.
You are messed up.
Just like me.
I am messed up and broken.
We are all messed up.
We made a mess of ourselves to
show people we were civilized
and no matter how enticing that sounds, they are nothing but brittle lies
that crumble in the hands of truth.
There is no galaxy in your eyes.
I cannot say you’re beautiful,
so I don’t even try.
I cannot express enough of myself
to convince you how real this is,
how deep I feel.
This is the most I can give you,
a sad little poem.
It’s all I have and I’m so sorry.
I’m sorry I write poetry in part to
make me feel more deserving of you.
Like the longer you spend on the tip of pen, the more qualified I am to be with you.
I’m sorry I write poetry in part to hurt you and I wonder if you wonder
who it’s about
but lately,
I’ve started to realize that everything around me,
reminds me of you.
Your wavy brown hair pulled back
In a perfect ponytail,
you’re gorgeous green eyes,
so curious for the things of the world,
how you always twist the silver band on your ******* when you’re nervous,
how your brows furrow together
when you frustrated,
or how you smiled for everyone
even if you didn’t want to.
I cannot say you’re as beautiful as Aphrodite because you’re not.
As much as I want to believe you hold
the universe in your eyes,
or that your hair is angry ocean waves,
or that your voice is silky flowery lace but it isn’t.
It won’t ever be because we’re only human and that’s all we can be.