and we poets think
our words are fragile
as a child
golden like the sun
what else is there
to be written about
that is not written on one’s face
when all there is to say is
“I want you to stay
longer in this embrace”
while my arms are locked
around the vastness
of you.
and we think our poems are golden
when they are so small
papers hold the description
but actions do not fleet
without meaning
all that I want to write
becomes negligible in words
what I just need to do
is imprison you in my bones
and look up your eyes pleadingly
do you really see everything in his face?
that's prolly the sweetest thing i've heard…