metaphors can't fit in the distance between your freckles and petals made of words blooming from your lips don't look like aphrodite, born from the seafoam.
your eyes look nowhere like a map of constellations sprinkled with my favorite phrases; they're not even the color of my favorite coffee, or the ink I use when making my blotched poems.
similes, paradoxes, they don't even run in your veins or arteries.
and yet curiously, seeing you still feels like reading poetry.