It’s ironic that you hate poetry,
When all you do, as if on cue,
Is inspire me to admire the
Rhythmic way your body moves;
Your subtle lines, your blushing hues,
The graceful way you always lose
Yourself in everything you do.
As if there were a way I couldn’t choose
To be absolutely moved by you.
Oh, how desperately I ache
To have a moment I could take
To show you, for your own heart’s sake,
How it seems the Sun itself awakes,
Knowing what a grand mistake
It’d be to miss a single day
Of admiring all the moves you make.
Your breath comes out in charming prose,
And everything I feel just goes
Away from me, lost in the flows
Of elation which your smile bestows.
I madly wish I could compose
A worthy turn of phrase that shows
How instantly I am transposed
From everything I’ve ever known
About the way a love could go.
I’ll settle for these modest lines
They’re simple, yes, but they are mine,
And will be so until a time
That you can know, through word or rhyme,
These feelings that I can’t define:
How everything seems so sublime,
The roughness of the world refined,
By an act as simple and divine
As my hand and yours being intertwined.