I'm not sure how much of you I know yet. I know that 75% of you is a river while the remaining 25% of you remains unknown. I am making you sound like a science text book.
The other day, I called you music, and flowers, and everything else I could think of that would grab your lips and make them curve upward to smile.
I'm not good at writing poems for people who have made my veins into a swimming pool to backstroke through. I'm not used to being warm like this.
I know that we can sometimes be identical and sometimes, it's hard to convince you that you're breathing but let me put it this way, you are hurricane Katrina, the shredded buildings, the ceramic plate my mother made for me through the aftermath. When I was 15, it was hanging on the wall and fell from a thunderclap. Yellow, with my name on it. I have called you baby on an estimate of four times a day and we are trying to fix it.
We will slow dance in the living room and we will not notice the windows whistling but what you do not know it sounds like a storm but love, I hear you name through the cracks in the doors when the rain sets in.
I haven't said much already. Hurricanes are awful and you think you're more like the sound the sky makes when it's upset. But everyone likes the name Katrina anyway. Metaphors don't get me anywhere but listen, hold me like I am the only building you do not want to destroy.