He was my poetry.
From the pink of his lips to the
dips in his hips and the way he
looked when he stared at me. Like
the universe was there before us,
and yet we were all alone. When
he held me in his arms I dreamed
I might have found a home.
He was my poetry.
From the stars in his eyes to the
truth in his lies and how he always
knew me. Thus, his song was in my
soul and my heart was in his hands.
And when he leaned in to gently kiss
me, I would soar to other lands.
He was my poetry.
From the stories he would tell to
the way I surely fell and the storms
rolled from deep inside. He would
hold me close when thunder was
near; whisper pretty things into
into the shell of my ear. He was
my troubled angel of tears.
He was my poetry.
From the dots on my I’s to the crosses
on my T’s and all the beautiful
things he said to me. I wrote and
wrote and wrote until my fingers
began to bleed. I was so in love
with him, that he became
poetry to me…
He. Was. My. Poetry.
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