May 3, 2024
He is not a poet.
He doesn’t look at the sky with the stars in his eyes
He won’t compare me to the sun
He sees the longevity of flowers, not the
beauty
His stories are filled with numbers
But he sits quietly with me when I cry
And he wraps his arms around me and holds me close
He won’t bring me into the sun if it’s too hot, but we’ll watch the sun set as it leaves
And while I gaze at stars, he stares at me
And he sees not the beauty, but the rest of our lives
He numbers the days of our story, and we count every minute of it together
He is not a poet,
but he makes me feel like perhaps, I never needed poetry.