I never considered myself a poet
I wrote on napkins
And the backs of receipts alike
But when you came around
With your rambling thoughts
And your love for mismatched socks and cello sonatas
I found myself with ink stained
Fingers from 3 am scribbles about the significance
Of the way you like your coffee prepared
One day the moon became more than just a light in the sky
And your eyes were the
Stars above my head.
You gave sidewalk cracks meaning.
You made me stop to look at every dandelion
Others mistook for weeds.
Where I once dreaded Sunday’s
I found myself
Craving them
Longing for the love affair of tangled sheets, sleepy eyes, and the smell
Of tea brewing on the stove.
Before you I read books like I drank water,
Without a second thought
But now I inhale them
Like the cigarettes I begged you to put out
You made me a poet
My life became a
Series of run on sentences because
I was scared of the end
I was scared of pauses
I was scared of our punctuation.
I tried to capture each second with a pen
You always watched with a slight chuckle
As I dropped it all
Plates, papers, and remotes
Just to
Give way to the words
Trying to get out.
Well you made my Sundays beautiful
And filled my every moment with passion
So maybe I’m not a poet
But you were my poetry.