You my love are so well read.
And, you read me like no other.
I was print
Now I am the curls and curves of script
Written across the sky.

The words you speak reach out to me,
As the movement of your lips hypnotize.
Your heart’s sound next to mine
Creates a loss of memory.
I can feel nothing but
The letters your tongue forms
Against the delicate surface that is my skin.
You dipped into me slowly.
We became a poem.

Your spoken words leave a heady scent,
A scent that has become a flower
Opening.
You are music to my spirit.
I dance on command.

These are the things that move me.
This is the foundation of my love.
This is my poem.
We are not poetry.

These words are going to hurt.
You will undoubtedly flee,
Drift on words you do grasp,
Feel the resonance of those you do not know
Sting your flesh.
This is the purpose of poetry—
To evoke, confuse, enlighten, live.

Know that I love you.
Know that you are not alone.
But, there are no pretty words left.
I must apportion the ones unspoken.
I will create the sacrificial poem;
There will be no accolades for what I share.
No awards will be given.

I shall start on common ground.
I shall start with words.

Are there words for pain?
Not the ones that hide between pages
Or the ones that glorify loss,
I’m creating new words for this poem.
I’ve glimpsed the you behind your words.
I’ve witnessed the loss of focus.
I’ve offered sympathy in vain,
Attempting to fill the cracks,
Smooth out the jagged edges.
I look into your eyes and know that I’ve failed.
There are no words for such a pain.

Words are not pain.
You are not a poem.
We are not poetry.

You are a caged bird
Alone with your song.
I watch you bloody yourself
Against the bars of your confinement,
Finally understanding that
What confines you is you.
Your feathers are falling to the floor of your cage,
And you are losing your beauty.

This is not a poem about beauty
Your song is not of beauty but of sorrow.
This is a poem about freedom,
About survival.
I wish to free you.
But, I do not have the key.

This is a poem of sorrows.
This is a sorrow song.
This is my poem
We are not poetry.

Now
You sit naked before me
In the light of dawn,
Giving me words--
Some of which do not belong to you.
I tire of dramatics.
I tire of your poems.
I tire of your words.
You are not a delicate bird,
Not a poem,
Not poetry.
You are just a man.
A man must free himself.
I can no longer taste your wounds.
No longer can I sing your sorrow.

This poem
I lay beside your bed,
Before closing the door,
Is mine to you.

"We are not love.

We are not poetry,
only sorrow.
Goodbye."