If he were a poem
   he would be both starlight on a crystal
   and untouchable sunlight through the clouds
   in a miraculous acrylic portrait
   he's something reminiscent of an ancient time
   where love flowed freely
   against it's turmoil and twists
   because he is endless where he began
   a being with no end or compass to land
   he is someone I've loved

If she were a poem
   she would be a window view of autumn leaves
   curled with a good book and fresh brewed tea
   she is a porcelain doll with many cracks
   cracks I tried to fill with laughs
   that foolishly I thought would last
   because she was a drop of honey
   in a poisoned glass
   she is someone I've loathed

If my best friend were a poem
   she would be stained glass windows
   during the golden hour
   wine stained colors dancing on sunlight
   tracing along my skin
   because she feels like a fractured memory
   of true religion and a cacophony
   of all that good faith could be
   she is someone I need

If I were a poem
   I wonder what I'd be?
   would I be like a lark crying out to be heard
   singing into darkness
   just till the moment passes?
   or would I be more like an ivory statue
   a moment frozen in something ephemeral?
   I can guess and theorize
   but I will never know

Because I am the poet-
                                             and not the muse.