Only You

If I were a poet,
I could describe you,
the way you were meant
to unfold. I wouldn't
judge you. I'd tell
about your room, your
hair, your breasts,
your smile, and maybe
recount a glowing, drunken
teenage memory or two.
I was in awe, I was your
guardian, and that is
love, better than with
any man. I can tell you
anything, even that you've
rushed like a wave into
sad, loopy madness and
you need to stop
drinking so much.

But I'm no poet, and you're
no object. Some people arrange
themselves, their stuff,
their friends and lovers
as if they were characters
in someone's literature. You're
not like that. There's not
much facade there. You speak
and we hear the thumping
heart of you.

You are a poet. Only you
can describe you.