He could never write a perfect piece
about me or my blue eyes. He’s
not known me very long and I’ve
received poetry before. He’d surprise
to surpass the first or the best. Unless
he tells me the one thing no one’s said till now.
Not likely, so he’ll doubtfully succeed
He might say I’m beautiful or profess
love for me, or even compare
me to some object he’s seen. He can’t
find that one thing, though. He won’t stand
apart, for he knows not if I love:
to be held until I fall asleep;
his sympathy for a hard day;
him saying something nice by choice;
holding hands while watching TV;
his deep stares that make me melt.
He certainly won’t know how
I’d love described my own eyes blue
in a poem: not as the ocean,
or the sky, or windows to my soul.
He’ll never get it right. A man
rarely does, I’ve come to believe.
Though I’d love having the expertise—
writing a perfect poem to please.
Resisted temptation provides little drive
to write perfection, even for your blue eyes.
Happiness is in those eyes and I confess:
life is better when I see them somehow.
Even for someone like me indeed—
I’m never satisfied— Your smile gives endless
excitement. Any man would dare
tell a lie to say you do not enchant.
For injustice would be not wanting your hand.
Giving you pleasure is what I think of;
in our arms, each other to keep.
Without you my nights are still not grey,
since I can always hear your voice,
even in silence. And eyes closed I see
you in my dreams as reality. I felt
our lips would meet, in those dreams and now,
as a perfect match. I’d like to
dive in your direction for possible promotion
through clear-blue eyes. My one goal
is to have you if I ever can;
give pleasure to you as I receive.