She’s always been the apple of my eye,
once on a branch far too high.
Both the sun and moon within my sky,
I’ll love her until the day I die.

When she walks on me she walks without shoes
and when she puzzles me she still gives me clues.
She takes my blacks and makes them blues,
but does she have as much as me to lose?
And in every life will it be me she’ll still choose?

She’s my everything and more;
the only one I scribble these silly poems for.
Almost in my blood, she’s in me to my core,
the only one I could ever adore.

When she talks to me she talks without game,
each word she says is soft, I love the way she says my name,
it’s nothing noticeable but noticeably not the same.
She sets me ablaze from a simple flame,
a breath of air that I wished for came.

It’s something that no one could understand
and each day it only seems to grow.
I could cut off and sever each hand,
and still not manage to ever let go.
I wake up and cherish every single day,
and I’m thankful for each past and coming year.
My love I could never drift away;
I was always meant to be here.

I didn't even ask him
what kind of music he digs,
for his voice alone
is my new favorite record.
I didn't bother finding out
his kind of taste in music,
for my newfound orchestra
comes from his lips.

I didn't even ask him
what kind of films he watch,
for even reality feels like a movie
when he came from the side door,
that's a film I've never seen before.
The ****** is when I was falling
and he was there, ever ready,
waiting and willing to catch me.

I didn't even find out
what kind of books he reads,
for his way with words
is already a novel of poetry.
I didn't even dare ask him
what he thinks of the bible,
for his articles and greetings
alone are my homily.

I didn't even find out
if our taste in music, cinema and literature matches and if I should go otherwise.
You only do that in shallow,
short-lived connections.
I didn't even bother finding out
if our taste in things aligns,
for he already spiced up my
underseasoned life.

A drop of water fell on my hand,
drawn from the Ganges and the Nile,

from hoarfrost ascended to heaven off a seal's whiskers,
from jugs broken in the cities of Ys and Tyre.

On my index finger
the Caspian Sea isn't landlocked,

and the Pacific is the Rudawa's meek tributary,
the same stream that floated in a little cloud over Paris

in the year seven hundred and sixty-four
on the seventh of May at three a. m.

There are not enough mouths to utter
all your fleeting names, O water.

I would have to name you in every tongue,
pronouncing all the vowels at once

while also keeping silent — for the sake of the lake
that still goes unnamed

and doesn't exist on this earth, just as the star
reflected in it is not in the sky.

Someone was drowning, someone dying was
calling out for you. Long ago, yesterday.

You have saved houses from fire, you have carried off
houses and trees, forests and towns alike.

You've been in christening fonts and courtesans' baths.
In coffins and kisses.

Gnawing at stone, feeding rainbows.
In the sweat and the dew of pyramids and lilacs.

How light the raindrop's contents are.
How gently the world touches me.

Whenever wherever whatever has happened
is written on waters of Babel

By Wisława Szymborska

Like a fresh breeze
You softly glide along my skin
I breathe you in like oxygen
Filling my lungs like my heart
I love you like art
True, your body is a masterpiece
But too this connection is timeless
Surrealism conjured into existence
We are both and neither one force
While equally, distinctly ourselves
When magic met reality
Our love emerged from the collision
I can't imagine a better life
Without your soul touching mine
I never knew a love like this existed
And I am grateful for every minute

There is a lovely green lotus

unfolding from the center of his eye,

as if the iris that looks upon my desperate body

is the darkened water from which it sprouts...