i fell in love
with a boy
who is not poetry.

he is not
ink and paper
but rather
bones and blood,
curves and edges
smooth
beneath my fingertips.

he is not
definitive words
but rather
light laughter
and soft kisses,
heaven
in a few seconds.

he is not
full of hidden meanings
but rather
giving his entirety
to a girl
who needs to use it
as a blanket.

he is not
poetry.
he cannot fit
inside these lines,
be found
within finite words.
he cannot hide
between periods,
squeeze
into stanzas.

i cannot make him
poetry.
he is perfection
and poetry
is too broken
for a love like his.