My dearest, Incomparable

An unintentional, unassuming twist of a love poem.

My dearest, Incomparable.

My dearest, Incomparable.
You swagger and swear and tip your head
like a divine sculpture of yourself.
Solidified- everything I’d come to hate.
In theory.
But I do not love in theory.
Theory is not kind to the soft eyes of love,
theory gives reason to doubt.
You are a sum with the answer all wrong.
You are a poem that does not rhyme, or worse,
one that does.
A limerick, a brash laugh and a careless disregard.
I see the punch line long before the end
and yet I’m spun.
You are the orange gleam of a duck’s foot on the
still lake of my façade.
You disturb everything but you know nothing of
the secret sea inside.
And if I had a reason,
I would say I planned to save you,
convert you like the vibrant green leaf to the
palest page of psalm.

But I have no desire for birds under bars;
we still, from a distance, may admire the stars.