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February 14th

I felt you
from the second chord;
saw you between the sheets
of music;
a familiar beat
still stuck in my head.

We love like a poem
with all the right alliteration,

bend and sway
with the wind;
words trapped in psyches,
syllables tumbling,
dancing

through the layers of us.

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Symmetry of Petal and Soul

I.
Awaken to a yellow sun
smiling daffodil lips
penetrating layers of spring
on a honeysuckle morning,
strumming love notes
into sentences;
dandelion fluff dancing
to dust in our tresses.

II.
We lie ‘neath the willow
conversing in pretty adjectives
trading pink petals
for three little words,
falling back upon forget-me-nots-
blue and forgiving,
like constellations colliding
within the irises of our eyes.

III.
Blanket, basket,
bouquets of marigolds
in scent of summer
under shadow of birch,
glasses bubbling over
stumbling on my words
caught up in your gaze;
limbs bend, curve
to the shape of a heart;
in a silhouette of us.

~

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Love Letter #58: Symmetric

To say your name
in the silence of the evening
still brings me to tears;

your fingers, wipe them away,

trace the shape of my lips,
turn corners to a smile;
your gaze, a simile.

We lie, horizontal
counting constellations,
watching fireflies
swirl the scent of our love.

We don’t need words,
but you speak soft syllables,
anyway;
dance them
in the symmetry
of a poem.

I could fill pages
with the petals of our story,
compose a symphony;

notes resembling the melody
of my harp strings
when you twirl my hair
‘round your pinkie,
play pretty with my heart,

frolick in flowers
beneath our bare feet,
in breeze they sway
and tickle tendencies
to run; to silence time

to leave senses simmering
in the seamless chorus

of us.

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Love Letter #48: Unnatural

I roll over,
but he moves closer,
his fingers finding the softness
of cheeks;
the fondness in a gaze;

my feelings,
without even looking,

like the way he seeks me
in dreams
on a white horse, rides in,
his voice awakening me
at just the right moment;
with gentle kisses
on the forehead

to hush the fear;
to soften the blow.

It has been said that our closeness
is unnatural,
like how his hand feels empty
without mine inside it
and how I still cry,
surprised by the pink roses
behind his back
on Valentine’s day.

They don’t understand
that it isn’t the fluff;
the perfect pink petals,
or the romantic gesture,
but the sweet look on his face
that I am still so in love with.

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Déjà vu

Your name was on my lips
before I knew your eyes
and the way they melt into mine,

so that I must turn away,
blushing,
pink as the roses
hiding behind your back,

soft, like your heart.

We began this language of ours
with two notebooks behind a tree
exchanging syllables and glances

connecting the dots

between stars
and a jealous June moon

wondering why the deja vu’
beneath a weeping willow
and how our hands
seemed to have held before;
mine gently wrapped into yours,

belonging,

like words
inside a poem.

~

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Charcoal Outline

If shadows could speak,
mine and yours would converse
about the fragile life
​of daffodils,

the softness of constellations
and the way light billows
through strands of our hair;

silhouettes sleeping

within the length
of one another.

~

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Arranging Flowers

He didn’t carve initials
in that oak tree we lay beneath,
but, we tasted syllables.
rolling off the tongue,
from his lips to mine
and back again,
quenching our thirst
with the juice of poetry
dripping down pink curves;
fingers finding metaphor
within tangled limbs-
searching for alliteration
in a handful of wildflowers;
breaths meeting
in the middle
of love’s sentence