You Are Not
You are not a fragile flower, or a wilting winters bloom
That must be plucked and pressed between my pages,
You are not a crystal goblet
Into which I pour my subjectivity
Like wine for which you have no taste,
I know that you would sooner leap from pedestals and break
Then fill yourself with any definitions but your own.
You are not a painted portrait,
Oils cannot hold your shape and brushed break under the weight
Of trying to define your smile,
Canvases collapse in flames, and just a glance from you could
Shatter stained glass panes, and shake the Seven Wonders into rubble.
You are not a mint condition first edition,
Printing presses melt when asked to spell your name,
And laureates of great acclaim would shun such vast responsibility.
You are not a piece of poetry,
Even the most delicate intricacies of spoken word
Could never hope to capture but a fraction of your grace,
Stanzas stumble drunkenly across the page
And your disinterest causes sonnets simply to disintegrate.
For what you are, I have no frame of reference.
Left breathless by a beauty that seems effortless,
Rendered defenceless by a rebellious temperament that quite belies your tenderness,
If you had a need of me my love, then I would brave a hundred hoards of hellions,
And though I know you’d never need a saviour,
Maybe you could use a gentleman.
This is not a temporary sentiment.
How I feel about you makes all past and future feeling seem irrelevant,
And there is no exaggeration when I tell you that
You are my Everything.