I've read poems about the way
sleepy lovers watched eyelids flutter
softly, like tiny butterflies
perched on daisies and wilting white roses.

I could only compare the light movements
of your eyes to the sun painting the clouds
in a way which made me wish to reach
into the sky and pluck harps by golden gates.

but I don't believe in angels.

I've read poems about coffee stained lips
and menthol cigarettes dancing
between fingertips, to match soft
Good Mornings and mumbled I Love You's.

I could only compare your speech
to the songs curling from the heavens
at three o clock in the morning,
as the quiet world sleeps and I
strain to hear broken lullabies.

but I don't believe in angels.

I've read poems about boys with irises
that run a thousand miles deep,
with bones made out of gold,
and with stories that pull girls
in like fruit flies in a spiders web.

I could only compare your eyes
to one who has seen the pain hidden
in the deepest corners of the earth.
your bones hold the weight of the world
and the stories you spin only seem fit
to one who carries shaking wings
and a glowing halo.

but I don't believe in angels.