I have pined for many years of sonnets writ of me.
Perchance about the flecks of gold against green in my eyes exemplified.
How cheerful her heart is despite suppression. The love of a woman, tender and precious.
Even blushed to imagine the entanglement of limbs, splayed out instead, on paper; memories of hushed moments and sweeter tastes.
How I’ve longed to be immortalized in written lace.
How anyone’s heart would melt at this face– something of a loving pace.
I take pen to paper, about hearts won and lost, I had hoped to see myself too through similar eyes, but at what cost.
Each poem is a lense of thought.
Glasses for each passing person, afixed securely, with words that wrap around minds and hearts for extra measure.
To be able see through a looking glass
all the moments that a poet sees, in finite detail, at your leisure.
Like… those flecks in eyes when sunshine glints on darting irises, nervously fluttering from lips to lashes, wishing silently for a kiss.
Sometimes the details are missed, and the poet’s glass spectacles reveal a spectacular array of only half- filled heart receptacles.
Susceptible to each poet’s senses. Sometimes instead of loving words, you find that the heart wrenches.
I fear the only poems writ about me will be of how a girl broke her own heart.
Wearing another poet’s lense to get a good look at yourself is a prompt start.
What if I see myself in this play of words, but in a different part?