This is a
love poem;
But it is
not like the ones where
The writer
would die and he’d never know
And she’s
haunted by his face everywhere she goes,
Where she
wipes her thumb on the rim on his glass,
And brings
her hand in close, in hopes of a dance,
Or when he
loves her at last and lets her down,
Where she
follows him around to glimpse even a frown
And kisses
the place where his shoe touched the ground,
Where she
composes symphonies of the sound
Of his feet
pounding the ground
Or pounding
her down;
My feelings
are not so skewed or misplaced,
My heart
does race but it doesn’t hurt
I don’t get
jealous when you speak of her
I am not
deterred by the thought of her
Hands
through your hair, hands that will never have to
Nurse any
bruise,
Not from you;
She doesn’t
know you like I do
But that’s
okay.
I am not
envious of her lips, bursting with love,
Because they
aren’t bursting with blood
I don’t mind
having to share you,
I’m sharing
myself and it would be selfish
To keep you
to myself
I delved
into the wells of a thesaurus, I admit
To find the
best words to transcribe how I feel
Maybe to impress
you or to make you think I’m smart;
But I know I
don’t have to,
Not with
you.
I like being
under this sky with you
I don’t have
to be anyone but myself
I have
nothing to prove;
I want you
to like me, but I don’t feel desperate to try
And change
myself or chase you or erase her
Forgive me
if I get caught in your eyes
Or find
myself following your smile
It’s not a
lustful cry
I’m just
tryin to get used to a guy
Who treats
women so damn well… my,
You hug me
goodbye
And smell of
cedar,
Not candles
on an imaginary wedding cake.
You smile
and I feel warm inside,
But it’s not
a burning desire
That will
hurt the next day.
Your hand
brushes mine
And it’s so
soft and kind
But it’s
nothing like a red rose bouquet,
And I hope
you touch her so softly this way.
I do love
you,
But not in
that way.
