Poetry...poetry is not my stronghold,
but when our eyes meet, I remember stories I was never told
I envision your painful past
while at the same time, watch our future together unfold.
I don't know much about prose, Shakespeare, or Poe
but your eyes, those spheres as dark as unexplored fragments of a deep sea world where miracles of God, still undiscovered, are said to be born, make me want to learn
I want to read Robert Frost and Langston Hughes until my head burns with exhaustion
I want to be fluent in terms I never knew existed
Just to allow these images in my mind to be transcribed onto paper
Just so I can paint you the lyrical picture of exactly how simply just meeting your gaze makes me feel a little safer
I remember how when our eyes first met, like really met, your pupils dilated.
They say that is a chemical reaction that proves love, and if that's true, I swear I'll die elated
of old age
because our eyes would hold gazes like an elderly couple holding hands on their weekly Sunday morning dates, traveling down memory lane.
And I hope that one day...one day I can create verses that aren't heard, but felt by your aura and embraced by you spirit.
but right now, it's like me and my soul speak different languages and my petty vocabulary is losing things in translation.
But I'll attempt, for a moment, to describe to you what my soul sees.
Your eyes are storybooks, longer than the night of a winter solstice
and when they accidently make contact with mine, like starngers do on crowded streets,
I am blessed to hear a faint whisper of just a sentence in their books.
And though I am not very good at poetry,
the poet in me is set free everytime you look at me.