Memoirs Of A Teenage Heart

He loved only what he can see...

He loves only what he can see...

He loves me, perhaps.

He sees the sunlight

lingering on my shoulders -

the nighttime sleeping lazily

beneath my emerald eyes.

Maybe he calls them a twilight

that paints the roses on my cheeks

and the peaches of my lips.

He probably thinks they’re sweet,

and not cracked with the tears

that have carved canyons

down my cheekbones.

He loves me, perhaps.

He tastes the universe 

that dances on my tongue -

the breath carrying shadows

to the light of the moon.

He thinks me to be soft, kind,

gentle in my existence.

Maybe he thinks I am the breeze

that whispers through Willows

or laughs upon the waves.

He loves me, perhaps.

Yes, he loves me.

But not me, no -

never me.

Just the petals

that reach the sunlight.

Just the blossoms

that hide the graves.

Not the words, 

no, never the words.

Just the poet,

just the pen,

not the ink they bleed.

Poets hold a burial site

in their chests,

and I am a grave keeper

carving names on tombstones.