I dream about writing you a love poem One that is not misted over. One that is not about him But you, my beloved, Because you are the only thing that I have ever wanted and I am tired of being so shy.
But this is hard. This is even harder thanΒ I thought it would be. I am staring at the her at the end of my first sentence and trying to figure out how it will sound when it finally breaks free from lips. I imagine it will coat my ******* strange new liberation and we will both rejoice.
Β I refuse to write of you equivocally And blend you into a neutral they Or let yet another poem fall to chagrin. I will not let shame cast shadows on our glorious love No declararion of the truth could ever be an aberration.
So I write this love poem to you. I do not scribble you deep into the binding or dust you lightly across my untruthful words. I want to stain these pages with the red ink with our love. You are not my secret to keep anymore. You are the color I want to paint the sky.