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.