Love poems are never as good as sad ones—
And rarely do we write in times of joy.
If I could gaze into your eyes forever
I’d happily sink into dreaded cliché
Or abandon my pen to the wind, to the wings of a bird
To a feathered quill that would script out our names in the sky.
They say she will tire of his poems,
Emailed to her desk at work
Not with flowers or fanfare or fantails
Nor folded-up newspaper wrapping
Just his words, in times new roman, time again
–And could I ever want for more than this–
She asks herself, composing
Her features for when she will see him next.
i read too much billy collins
and everything i write sounds much like him.
sometimes i must ask–
is this a poem?
or just a confession i scribbled once
on the bottom of a shopping list–