you are not a rose.
not pricked
in thorns
or cannibalized
for love
you are not a summer day.
if your eyes hold
a sunset
you keep it
well hidden
you are not a gift.
promise,
secret,
or encapsulated
by any singular
intent
you
do not fit neatly
into metaphor
(or my poet’s heart)
you are simply
(perfectly)
unique.
we trade making a scene
for quiet today
is the cessation of dreams
the price we must pay?
hold onto these words, less we forget
that a lifetime of almosts
is one of regret
the longer I live
the more that I find
the things I miss most
are the dreams left behind
not callous, not simple, not shallow or clothed
but bared and complex, deep and exposed
not careful, not silent, not restrained or delayed
but reckless and furied, freed and remade
not counting the rings in the circles I’ve walked
but remembering the falls and the chances I’ve stalked
you can promise the peace of a path well traveled and tested
and I’ll show you my scars where the best have been bested
now tell me you’re listening
and I’ll tell you this:
a life that’s worth living
is too easily missed