These are the thoughts of a man in love
I dont know what it is, but they call it poetry
all I see is words, sounds, dripping off the page like
tears, beer, and I'm am drunk in the lyrical prose
but it doesnt rhyme, no, it simply... speaks.
I wish that I could hold it for a second, no, for an eternity,
and cradle every word, every letter,
every harsh and sweet sound that escaped my lips that night.
Maybe I am in love, but it isn't with a girl, it's with the words she said
the way her every move spoke to me like thunder coursing through my veins
and I was alive, if only for a moment, I was breathing
deeply as I loved her every verse, every curve, and curse
the day I let her know that I loved her, but didn't.
I would buy her flowers, but the beauty intoxicates me miles before they're in her hands.
And I smelled them, and I was drunk in the poetry.
I keep writing, and it's not her that's on my mind, it's the words I spoke to her.
And yes someday she'll be long gone, like many more will come and go,
and leaving so, not ready to go, but yet they know it's poetry
that I love, but this isn't poetry, no, this is not what it sounds like.
These are just thoughts of a man in love,
and I can't think of a better love than that.

But what is love?
Is it a spark?
A flash of light that burns so brightly, it blinds
and blinding as it may be, it helps us see
the truth that is within us, that is without us,
love cannot be, without you and me, in this moment, endlessly.
Strange how quickly we lose the moment, but yet it remains within us,
and no matter how hard we fight it, it is never quite extinguished.
But maybe it isn't a moment, maybe it is much more detailed.
Maybe it grows slowly through the passing tides of life, rising and falling
slowly each and every day, and we feel like we're drowning,
and then do our lips, so parched and cracked, thirst for each other
when we are but water slipping through the aging hands of our love, dying love.
It grows not upwardly, but in roots, and it's so deep that even though we may be distant,
I can feel you move beneath me, and I can smell your breath as you part your lips,
and I long to kiss them, but hold back to hear you speak,
your voice, gentle, fragile like a balancing blade, you are soft with your words,
yet the incision in my heart you leave so surgically is permanently sealed.
But what do I know, I am just a boy,
and I know not of love, but I know of pain,
and I know of longing,
and I know you.