September 27, 2007
This is not a love poem.
This is not a sonnet or a balled
proclaiming your hair and eyes better
than any I have ever seen.

They are fine features, to be sure.
Your hair is delicate like spider webs
and the dark like stained oak.
and sometimes when I see your eyes,
I think

I will not lie and say you are perfect.
You are indecisive and overcautious,
loud when I want quiet,
quiet when I want noise
(I could set my watch to your mood swings,
if I wore one).

But even though your eyes are not
exactly the piercing color of
frozen oceans,

And despite your inability to decide
if you like crickets better than grasshoppers
it is on your chest that I lay my head,
your lips that I kiss when I am
too lonely to write, or breathe.
you whom I leave the door unlocked for
every time you storm out.

It is always the same,
and you always come back.

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