who am i?
who am i to pick the single rose
from the vast expanse of nothingness?
who are you to offer it to me?
who is the fool who takes something so precious
and lovely?
why do you feel worthy?
are you worthy of soft, bloody petals
and sleek, green stalks?
are you worthy of pain?
who am i to love thee?
who are you to love me?
can i be the shadow
of your figure?
can i feel
the soothing conundrum
of your chocolate voice?
am i enough to
glance at your fingertips
that run through her jubilant hair
i feel so insignificant next to her
and so insightful next to you
her rich, soil-brown skin
is so lovely
it must be the reason
you touch it all the time
her forest of natural hair
is so much
it must the reason
your hand is always massaging it
why is she worthy
of your love?
why is she worthy
of your shadow?
your touch?
does she not see how
extravagantly magnificent
she is without you
by her side?
do you not see how
unimportant you seem
with her on your arm?
do i not see
how obsessed i am
with her?
why is she worthy
of such love
and beauty?
why am i not?
YOU ARE READING
{2} never alone.
Poetry"...we're hopelessly complicated and beautifully entwined, maybe we're ignorantly emancipated and selfishly try to prove it wrong..." lowercase intended.
