Freeverse Love

"My type?"

I got asked this question in a circle of girls who each knew their answer

Down to the shade of brown of their man's skin,

But all I could do was repeat the question: "My

Type?..."

I like, long hair, I like, confidence, I like.... girls?

But let's be honest that's not a "type", that's called an orientation

And narrowing it down to 51% of the 7 billion population

Doesn't really help.

I don't know if I really have a type, but there is ONE thing

There is ONE thing, when my chest starts filling up with words

And I want to write something real about love,

When I'm speaking only in iambic pentameter

And I want someone to understand,

When I'm quoting Hamlet

And I'm waiting: for someone to quote it right back

Then I remember

That I want to fall in love with a poet.

I want to be written love letters where every word is a prayer flag in the wind.

I want to send emails that are as eloquent as air

And text messages that connote something beyond one hundreda and sixty characters

I want to hold afternoon conversations in elegant freeverse,

Make "sleep tight" a sweet sonnet serenade

And stumble through our morning coffe in stuttering haiku.

I want to compare her eyes to storm-surged rivers and

Her body to Aphrodite's before the plastic surgery,

I want holding hands feel like pressing your palms against sunrise windows

And I want catepillars crawling up my spine when we kiss but mostlly

I want to be able to say "stop the date because we need

To go home and get in bed -

So I can write down this word-perfect line in my head"

And have her understand.

I want my wedding vows to be alliterative

And my adoption announcements to allude to King Solomon

I want her to be my rhyming couplet,

And I'll be her juxtaposition

And I want to fall in love with a poet

Because they know how to breath life into words.

Because they know how to make printer fonts dance.

I fell in love with a poet, once

But she started writing prose instead.

And these days when I read her dialouge

And mark her risng action,

I miss the hours we spent composing summer-soft sentences

Where daffoldils melt into sunshine

And never put a period at the end.

But life is no sonnet, it is freeverse

And it trails on past woe and joy.

And I still want to fall in love with poet.

Some days, my words take me high enough

That I wonder if I'll meet her

Through this poem.

XXX--