you’re not
hot summer evenings,
brisk fall mornings,
rainy winter afternoons,
or warm spring nights.
you’re not
the mystery boy in coffeeshops,
the faux prince in a fairytale,
the storm, the calm before it, or the disaster after it.
you’re not some metaphor for loneliness
or some simile for fulfillment.

you are, however,
the messages on my voicemail,
the last voice I hear before I sleep,
and the whispered confessions over the phone that I cling to in my moments of need.
you’re working hands and a strong back,
a soft soprano and bright eyes,
a glowing smile and a watchful gaze.
you’re easily moved to tears and
you like staying up late as much as you like sleep and
you’re allergic to cats and got stuck as the middle child.

you are too good to exist,
but too real to not.