To turn my lover into poetry

To turn my lover into poetry I would have to elaborate on the way his bony arms look fragile but are strong enough to hug me tight enough to put the shattered pieces of me back together again. To turn my lover into poetry I would have to elaborate on how his sharp hips pressing into me when our bodies are entangled on any given rainy Sunday morning is the only thing I want to feel for the rest of my life. To turn my lover into poetry I would have to elaborate on how all of my other lovers had brown eyes and how all of the shades of brown from coffee to tree bark run together when I think about my other lovers but his eyes are unlike any brown I have ever seen. To turn my lover into poetry I would have to elaborate on how he makes roses grow from the empty cracks in the sidewalks of my heart and those cracks have not grown anything but weeds since I was old enough to know the pain a man could cause. To turn my lover into poetry I would have to elaborate on all of the wonderful things about my lover but I would not give details about the fear I have knowing that one day I will have to carry on without his brilliant brown eyes, fragile arms, sharp hips, and his power to fill up the cracks in the sidewalks of my heart that have not been walked on since the last time I loved someone this deeply which was never.


Colonial Heights, VA, United States.

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