I started writing a poem and somehow found myself
comparing your traits to that of a sweater,
and there might have been an allusion to buttery clouds,

So I decided maybe love metaphors aren't my thing,
but I don't need analogies to tell you that
your eyes make me think of tree houses and that

kneading your skin like dough is just as soothing
to my own soul.
If I could, I'd compare your lips to something

life-sustaining, your hands to the sole thing that
grounds me, but I can't think of
anything clever when our foreheads resting together

makes me see stars. When your breath heats my neck,
those stars explode.
You make my solar system change rotation,

planets straying from orbit, which is a stupid metaphor
because I'm not the universe,
just a dandelion in a field of assorted weeds.

You're a bumblebee hovering, maybe, or a cricket
lounging on my petals. That's
dumb, too, because I'm not rooted to the ground;

I have legs to run, maybe wings. Point is, I'm not going to use
comparisons to tell you what you do.
Every line has been used before and your love is like no other.