for K.P.

Read at your leisure (or mine):
I’m so suddenly embarrassed
every time I remember you and my not-so-subtle confession,
but profession is my profession,
so (here) I’ll go with it:

the sun and moon and stars
are metaphors for lovers;
we rise and fall through the days and nights,
so when I made the sun both my anchor and guiding star,
I became her moon, and every shimmering star was witness to our light—
I flew to such heights, blinded, when she looked to me,
and fell deeper and darker than ever before
when she finally set, far into the night—

but lovers are metaphors (for) themselves,
for all we hold in our hearts,
the things we chase and let go of.

and I can fall in love so easily
that I realize meeting her
only showed me how to dive, and swim and not need breath,
captured by the depths of honest eyes,
wide open doors to the skies,
the windows into every moment,
the mirrors we cherish.

so I never give anything up:
I promise the beauty—of any and every one I meet—will never escape my heart,
and I never let things drag me on that I become adrift, a ship with no captain or a captain with no ship—
cut those thoughts away as soon as they come
with glimmering song,
whoever, whatever they might be;
the pen is mightiest of swords.

but some thoughts are long-lived
and connect far back to our pasts,
so I’m careful and slice slowly,
I hope like horizons to our sights,
so every new day is that much easier,
and every new night so welcomed.

whenever I meet an amazing person,
I look at them this way,
not afraid to come off too strong,
so they know who they are (to me)
and our hopes so infinitely climb.

and maybe I am just high,
in love with love,
straight-outta my mind—
but when each of our souls are gifts of endlessness I see no reason why not.

you need no words to respond with;
it’s how a kiss tells everything we wanted to say ourselves,
and everything we almost couldn’t—all at once;
we’d each say the same things, anyway,
even if one of us leans in quicker and longer.

We have nothing else to offer,
I might say, now, other than that silence that grows between us,
and all we take from it.

And, maybe a poet then is strangest of colors,
filling us out full where we never thought we went—
and we’re whirled through winds
ready to bring on the storms,
unless he finds balance
and lolls like ocean into the sea.

this way we can say,
like when the sun peaks through a cloudy day,
always were we fair to each other;
listening through though we didn’t know what to say,
speaking though we’d quickly look away,
and we smiled, and remembered
how even the golden lamp of the heavens
blushes a pinkpurpleorange-red of his own
never seen before, today,
any and every where and time, no matter who looks
or reads so much into it.

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