Now I don't know how to write poetry to well,

but damn do I know how to admire beards.

So the day I say yours across the lunch room,

I thought to myself,

"I need to touch that"

 

That sounds, insanely creepy.

But the thought ran through my head all day.

To me most beards are magic.

But your's was like all alluring black magick.

It made me feel bad.

And a little weird.

But I liked it.

 

The thing is, I don't even like men, so why I have such a love for beards is beyond me.

If I could have a marriage with just the facial hair coming from your chin.

Trust me, I'd be looking for a ring.

I'd be down on one knee saying,

"Hibernator, Chin Bristle, Whispy Wiggins,

marry me."

as if my life depended on it.

You told me to write you a poem.

Of my love for your beard,

in return for endless admiring.

 

Instead im not writing you a poem,

this is my formal love poem.

To the soup saver.

I love that people can loose food in you.

I love that people can hold food in you.

You're like a bra on someone's face.

See... magic.

I swear I look at your beard like Christians look at god.

Sometimes I sit up wondering at night,

wondering if it accepts me.

Love me like I love it.

It's become a sickness

and part of me is still looking for you.