Poets repeat the important words,
Maybe that goes to explain why your name is repeated in my sleep.
I’ll turn you into analogies,
Comparing your baby blue eyes to the ocean
And us to Adam and Eve.
I would say I plan to make art out of you,
But you were art before art was art, long before I came along.
As painful as it is to say, you will remain art after I leave,
Even when your skin begins melting from your bones.
Maybe my poems aren’t accurate,
I don’t see waves come to life in your eyes
And maybe you don’t love me.
But it’s a fond way to keep my memory alive-
Alive in only the ways I want it to be.
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In our poems we manage to make the most unrealistic things seem realistic.