He’s not a poet, but
I can tell from the way that he
traced the curve of my spine with his fingertips
that he thinks like one.
Because I could never fall in love with a man
who didn’t know
that the most tender thing
he could possibly do
was send me a poem by Baudelaire
and tell me, “I think you might possibly like this.”
Because fuck if that’s not one of my favorites.
And all I ever wanted was to fold myself into someone
who heralded unspoken thoughts and was a messenger
of words without words
of a kiss broken by silence,
of silence, broken by a kiss.
Because all of the men I’ve ever fallen for
weren’t really poets.
They just held secrets
like gold teeth in the back of their mouths,
and they just kissed me,
like I was the last poem in the world.