come to me,
if it comes easy,
it shall go out
hard,
pain.

My house walks.
She's pretty unique in that sense
She breathes with a passion very few get to witness unless she wish it
And carries herself in the stance of a headstrong and charismatic woman

My Home speaks
With a demanding voice that snatches the attention of the soul
She speaks words riddled with experience and wisdom
And laughs like the first song you've ever heard.

My peace of mind travels
It rests on the shoulders of a beautiful vessel created to match the soul and mind of my home,
And unfortunately

When she's roaming, my house no longer has my home.

(these are senryus)

Distrusted compliments
- screech like fingernails across
a schoolroom chalkboard.

No marked card - dealt from
the bottom of the deck - will
ever unlock my heart.

Avoid the overt
- sly Valmont, the skittish game
is wise to advances.

There's something about you that's addictive
I can't put my finger on it

Is it the way you look at me with such wholehearted assurance and acceptance that I can't help but smile?
Maybe it's how those beautiful eyes twinkle at the thought of anything remotely fun
Or how your baby hairs dance in the wind while the sun kisses your cheek each time you step out of the house

You have a scent I can't seem to shake
And a voice that's got my heart and veins pounding in catharsis

The first time I met you I thought you were cool
And each time we've met since then
You dropped rose petal after rose petal onto my mind
And lit a candle in my soul

Each time our late night talks melt into soft moans or electric laughter
I feel you steal another piece of my heart

Every time we converse together helps build the unbreakable desire
To slap a massive ring onto your hand and whisk you away

Every magic moment, blending into hours of peace and happiness
Punctuated by the softest parts of your soul.

I told you once I'd paint master pieces in your honor and put them in museums
I'd name the paintings "Not As Good As The Original"
Or
"Beautiful Piece but No Where Near As Accurate As The Real Muse"
Or
"Painting #5,607 of My Favorite Woman"
The part I didn't mention was the Museum's name

See, I'm gonna build it myself
And I'll name it:
The Magpie Museum of the Angel Trapped on Earth
The walls will be littered with portrait after portrait of you
The floor, lined with endless carvings of poetry and compliments meant for you and you alone
And this?
This poem will be #3
Of 10,000.

Why is it so hard to love you?
It’s not that I don’t want to,
Or even that you don’t deserve it.
I just get stuck between the unknown and the desired.
You could be the greatest, the sweetest,
But you aren’t the song I’ve gotten used to singing.

You expected a girl,
your own notion of femininity.
You expected me to laugh, to talk,
but only in bubbles,
Wonka’s fizzy lifting drink.
You expected to float
on my wiles
I’d heft you up while you cruise.
Well, you get nothing.
You lose.
Good day, sir.

Compliments were like mace;
asides that I never took well.
Never mind awkward first dates,
they were like living in hell.

I’m lucky I found gentle men
who took steps quietly,
that put up with my self-disdain.
and just as equally,
suffered in the rain.

But soon, they grew predictably helpless
and decided to abruptly end things.
Surrendering an on-going protest
they knew they would never win.

I’m sorry I brought my selfish war
into our cozy love stuff.
That I never cherished our affair
and tried to call your bluff,
as you firmly said farewell.

But if truth be told, and I’m being brutally honest…
I think I finally figured out the part that was the hardest
that I should be kind to myself regardless.

I greet you like a new shore with a wave that says hi and bye together.

Somewhere in between, I entertained the idea that we might have met on a train in Seattle once. We sat sideways on the edge of a deep conversation, staring out the window as the rain did the talking.

My mantra is an old Samurai teaching: defeat who you were yesterday. I told myself that I'll have something to say to you by tomorrow.

I write stuff down for inner peace. The pen is my sword.

I got it. When the pandemic is over, let's order clam chowder in lidded to-go cups and meet at the edge of a pier where ships leave. After a while, the sight of departure takes on a charm of its own.

I can talk to you more freely on higher ground, like a rooftop. Or a train platform overlooking uptown Chicago. It will feel like we've risen above the noise.

I make a pretty good penpal. I also have anime hair. And an enviable Samurai sword collection.

Do abs still count?

My brain is in great shape. Don't mind if the thoughts floating out of it are going over your head. It's better than going over heels. That would be hopelessly romantic.

Dating apps remind me of a formula in astronomy that says the odds of intelligent life beyond Earth are a statistical impossibility. Still, you can't help but look up on dark nights asking if you're alone.

I want to say I met a girl who I began writing about, the kind that doesn't just smile at you to be polite. Consider this an invitation to write back.

You'll get my name then,
-Annonymously Yours

Is love definite and true?
My anxious mind interrogates my heart for answers,
asking for evidence of feelings for you.

How do I know when to take it to the next stage?
My heart reads no definite chapter of certainty,
offers little advice of when it is right to turn the page.

How can I possibly know if you are the one?
I do not share your confidence,
I am willing to go the distance but I don't know if I can run.

Why does this always seem so easy to everyone but me?
Love at first sight does not seem possible,
I guess this is what it is like to be dating with anxiety.