To My Poet,
I am a cursive body
running laps on your notepad
telling you the story
of how we first met.
I am the best type of tickle —
a spark that lights your spirit,
warmth — like the sound of good morning.
I will be bittersweet — the first bite
of a fresh peach, the color green,
stars dripping — Apogee.
I’ve heard my words can make you weak.
I speak because your thoughts shriek —
bullet holes decorate the page, your brain
wants more, and we both know
this gets messy, but we both feel it —
something raw is ripening inside your mind.
Together — we are open
to interpretation, acclamation,
coughed up confessions
that have us convinced
certain emotions don’t exist —
language may sway, wobble,
and even pulsate, but language
alone will never explain the way
you create me. I feel
Wild and alive and fuck
I feel good. Write me —
passion like this
has never felt so rewarding.