You're not just "beautiful".

No, I mean, yes, you are beautiful, but jesus, when I say "beautiful"
it's not beauty like perfect "golden, glowing, soft halo" or whatever the hell writers like to glorify about some strands on your head
or having a "radiant smile" or "blush of a fair maiden" or things that wouldn't even make a lick of sense
if not for
biological evolution, physical attraction and Shakespeare.

No it's beauty that your mind is radiant, it's a tragic galaxy that I want
nothing more than to live in
and your heart is beating and it continues to
and you continue to, even when
you feel defeated
because it's you and your mind battle
and you scream out in
every way possible, your spirit and voice is  an orchestra that resonates somewhere in between my ribcage and my lungs and the words
the very words you use,
doesn't that tell more about you than
how "skinny your thighs are"
or how your "eyes glisten in the moonlight"?
Doesn't that tell me more than your "curving nose"or the "sway of the hips"?

No I'm not going to ******* love you for your "porcelain skin" and the
stupid "contours of your spine", I won't worship you like a poet --
I'm not going to praise your "romanticizing self-destruction",
which is so over used,--
can't you understand, beauty is not the face you wear but
the beauty that rakes itself over coals,
the sacrifices you make and the passions you care for,
the darkest secrets that you harbor
at any given midnight, and
even the way you like your ******* tea in the morning.

So when I say you're "beautiful", just know I'm not a poet.

He's concrete and
I'd love to be sidewalk chalk --
wash me away with rain,
but first let me lay a brief mark of my own
on all of his sidewalk cracks and all of his
broken pieces, the little slabs and pebbles that
weathered off from storms -- let me spill drawings there
with neon bright color
that are almost obscene in their hue.

Yes, I know it's temporary, we're temporary,
but maybe that's what makes it so
magnificent.

Drive me
to the
moon and back
and maybe we can
take a detour around

the big dipper
and get lost in {the}

s         p      a        c           e

between us...

She's every thought you ever shunned out of horrid curiosity, every flower that you couldn't bear to pick up because you were unsure if it had thorns, and every book
you've ever wanted to live in
bathe in ink and paper and drown in words
just like I want to drown in her mind
but I can barely skim the surface, barely
penetrate the depths,
and I guess my thoughts aren't heavy enough to carry me to the bottom.
Her fingers are cold and timid -- the way the first snowfall flurries down, unhurried and forlorn -- if they ever traced my skin I'd get more than frostbite, but
chills are okay as long as they stem from a place
that makes goosebumps a sign of anticipation
and not fear --
but I fear the way this makes me feel and I can feel so much already --
it bursts through my ribcage stronger than a heartbeat.
The eyes she has -- I can't tell if they're more full than mine, full of light and rapturing blue, or less full, empty like oblivion, and I just look and think and die and suddenly -- it's like she was never there,
she smiles and looks my way, but it's not a true smile,
not the kind so sweet that it will make your teeth ache,
but the kind of smile that's half-hearted like a shy blossom in spring or a polite stranger in an elevator on your way to a tenth floor cubicle, but ******, I'm not a stranger, --

I'm just trying to find the reason
why all of her "hello"s sound like goodbyes.

There's something beautiful
about the way people drink
their coffee in the morning,
with rumpled clothes
and bed head, and
even tired eyes.

In their gaze is slow long
sips of determination,
routine,
hope,
and
caffeine,
and
I can't help but wonder–
what battles
they're
preparing for.