I melt when I see you.

And this is not a love poem, don’t mistake it for one. 

This is just to state the facts. Normally my poems are all treacly and sugary and melting. 

Not this one though. Here is only truth, clean pure unclipped truth. Like a marble plinth from which the wood takes flight.

It is not a love poem when I describe the way they look at me as shining, sparkling, complete. Juice running down my chin, I have been out in the summer eating cherries in the starlight.

I have more if you’d like to share. They are ripe, but this is still not a love poem. All I mean is that the flowers are coming back, the idea of them at least, and it has dragged the sun back out from the clouds. They are going to make the best living bouquet, one I can wander in like last year. When I felt so much for them under the fresh sun and the lilac bushes.

This is not a love poem, of that I am sure, but this is not to say that I don’t love them.