I apologize in advance,
For none of my love songs will have melodies.
I will laugh in euphony and cry in cacophany, I will bleed with every typo and breathe with every verse. I will think in metaphors and speak in rhyme.
I will tell you I love you
Not by using those three words
But by writing my own; pages at a time.
I will compare your eyes to lighthouses in the mist
And your laughter to a lark's opera.
You won't just hear me say "you're beautiful" (though you are), but go on for chapters about every little freckle.
You won't understand why I think so dramatically. Or why I take so long to choose my words (because I always know I can find better ones). You will become angry when I sit down and write because I just can't say what I want to with my voice.
But, most of all, I apologize for the way your face will fall when you read my poems and discover who I am. You will awe at how I can hide so much in those little notebooks. You will hear stories about me that will never escape my lips. You will tremble at the exhausted self that remains after I pour all that I am into the pen strokes on the paper.
For these things, I am sorry.
So please excuse me for being a poet.
And please excuse yourself for loving one.
- p. winter
Jul 20, 2017
Jul 20, 2017 at 8:16 PM UTC
I apologize in advance,
For none of my love songs will have melodies.
I will laugh in euphony and cry in cacophany, I will bleed with every typo and breathe with every verse. I will think in metaphors and speak in rhyme.
I will tell you I love you
Not by using those three words
But by writing my own; pages at a time.
I will compare your eyes to lighthouses in the mist
And your laughter to a lark's opera.
You won't just hear me say "you're beautiful" (though you are), but go on for chapters about every little freckle.
You won't understand why I think so dramatically. Or why I take so long to choose my words (because I always know I can find better ones). You will become angry when I sit down and write because I just can't say what I want to with my voice.
But, most of all, I apologize for the way your face will fall when you read my poems and discover who I am. You will awe at how I can hide so much in those little notebooks. You will hear stories about me that will never escape my lips. You will tremble at the exhausted self that remains after I pour all that I am into the pen strokes on the paper.
For these things, I am sorry.
So please excuse me for being a poet.
And please excuse yourself for loving one.
- p. winter
