In this poem,
The name of my crush has been redacted
And replaced with the word "god":
But that’s another poem.
let me write poems about you.
It's happened before, where
I write poems about feelings I've never met
like fantasy is
The One who can fix me, with
prayer beads worn tight around my left ring finger.
This is not the first poem I've written about love
and it's not the first poem I've written about worship,
holding the ink of silhouetted name to my chest like
an echo, or a request, or a prayer, or,
this is not the first poem I've written on you
but this is the first poem I've liked since I've seen your smile.
It's the first poem where I can cross something
other than my fingers on my heart.
this is nothing to snap at
but when I say your name,
its the poem I have been purging for years-
I am a poet
and what do I know best? if not love
since poets make it easy.
we sell love as a drug, laced with easy vowels
and heavy pauses,
place love on the tongue of an audience to
hook them in
we write about love like we own it
and it is so easy for me to understand why
I see you and I shut down
the crash makes me human
the poem turns into poetry
God, I'm tired of reading your lips
when you speak to me in hallways.
I have no confessions to make.
there are no apologies here,
I offer you only gratitude
like a child wrapped in its own
lead me to where I am unafraid
of all the love you can give me.
if we are to talk about love languages,
then I am being flung off the tower of babel
in all five directions
I know it is difficult to touch a woman
without seeing her body
we've made a guessing game out of
all the limbs that can move are hidden
behind our mouths,
God, I've deified you
because I have trouble opening my mouth
for a man who already knows
what I want to say,
but you always crinkle your eyes
ask me to repeat myself?
our first day,
you asked me a question, but
creation is not that easy.
As both artist and art,
poets know that creation means
big bang and God become lovers
creation means there is never a finale,
only atoms being converted into final breath-
it is complicated to create,
so I deflected.
I’m sorry for being so mean
every time we talk
sometimes I like to pretend
that you can’t see through my answers
when I hand them to you.
they are all yours.
was the happiest I’ve been all week.
and isn’t that a metaphor?
I couldn't read your lips in the dark
but I could feel your shoulders, Atlas,
isn’t that a metaphor?
if you are to be a poem personified,
then be the one where I fall in love
with the meaning instead of the words:
you make me feel less like a monster
more like I have someone to smile up at.
tell me I am human enough to love
Jesus, tell me I'm good enough to die for
pray back to me sometimes.
let me know it’s OK to laugh at parables
Ramses, let me part the waters
to find you there
waiting for me to make a miracle
each question is a miracle
Lord, you make me wanna do stupid things
like wear your name
across my chest, as a necklace
or a tattoo
or fingers crossed
in the hopes that I walk into work
and you’ll see it one day
and know that I love you
even though I haven’t known you very long
Love, I hope you know
that I am making wine out of water
I am getting drunk off of
next to nothing
falling in love
off of silent glances
Love is still worthy of worship
even if the big bang was just a crash, or a crush,
mother says be wary of man
but you are nothing like my father
And that’s a blessing
she means to be wary of men
who think they have too much power,
a God complex, even, so
mother always said salvation would feel like this
I never expected it to be
like little raptures in your stomach,
a million butterflies going back home
to the heaven we spoke up in poems
***, let me go home to you.
I want to paint genesis on each wall.
whether it takes years or only three days,
tell me you’re still waiting for me
after sunday afternoon,
when all our friends are drunk on good wine.
***, I want to see you on the weekends.