He loves only what he can see...
He loves me, perhaps.
He sees the sunlight
lingering on my shoulders -
the nighttime sleeping lazily
beneath my emerald eyes.
Maybe he calls them a twilight
that paints the roses on my cheeks
and the peaches of my lips.
He probably thinks they’re sweet,
and not cracked with the tears
that have carved canyons
down my cheekbones.
He loves me, perhaps.
He tastes the universe
that dances on my tongue -
the breath carrying shadows
to the light of the moon.
He thinks me to be soft, kind,
gentle in my existence.
Maybe he thinks I am the breeze
that whispers through Willows
or laughs upon the waves.
He loves me, perhaps.
Yes, he loves me.
But not me, no -
never me.
Just the petals
that reach the sunlight.
Just the blossoms
that hide the graves.
Not the words,
no, never the words.
Just the poet,
just the pen,
not the ink they bleed.
Poets hold a burial site
in their chests,
and I am a grave keeper
carving names on tombstones.