My Own Version of a Romantic Poem

My intentions aren’t to fill you with the leaves of Whitman.

But if I had to compare you to one thing,

It would be along the lines of the seasons.

Summer is far too temperate to sum you up,

And autumn too flimsy and crinkly.

Maybe right between winter and spring.

That kind of time where

You’re not so sure if you’ll be chilled and brittle,

Not so sure if you’ll be reborn and baptized in warm beams

That saturate you only to the brink of sweat.

I’d never met someone who could simultaneously

Make me quiver and tremble at the idea of safety.

Or make me so insecure a drizzle of perspiration was always there,

Reminding me I was one of many who were feeling the same thing.

Cause I don’t believe in that drenching,

Heart hugging kind of love.

I think people are gonna leave you when you’re least ready to let ‘em go.

And no altering season is is gonna change that hovering, cloudy thought.

Don’t you recall that night,

When the moon sent down sharp teeth onto the earth,

And swallowed everything we knew about the inky black parts of night?

You told me everything was okay with us.

I wished day would come and materialize the truthful syllables under your tongue.

But the funny thing about affection is,

It falls right when you think it’s rising.