June 16, 2012


I have a spare composition notebook mixed in with my books and journals and photographs and I keep thinking of writing you every night, writing you like you'll never read a syllable, writing love letters and poems and spinning words as if they were magic, writing to you the old fashioned way with an ink pen and candle light and my thoughts and the cat on my lap, feverishly comparing you to the sun and the moon and lime sherbet and the air I breathe and the beat of my overly imperfect heart, redefining the simplicity of physics and astronomy to equal the crux of you, telling you how you make me laugh when I need to, how you make me think when I have to, and describing the twinkle in your eyes or the perfection of your nose or how when I hear you laugh my stress crumbles to dust and that when I'm with you the world could be flat and the stars are just pencil pokes in black paper because it wouldn't really matter but it would because you would tell me so and every night after I pour my words of adoration to you into earth's pulp I would tuck my pen away in a drawer, blow out the last of my flickering candle flame, and seal my weaknesses in between the marbled black and white, tuck it under my mattress and secretly hope you find it one day when it's full and it's full and you will smile, but instead
I try
every day
to get over you.

1 comment:

Anonymous said...

there's great poetry and feeling in your physics // peter