love song - "something to believe in"

haiii!! i wrote this poem 4 a person who literally does not like me back. i <3 being crazy ad silly!! this person rlly does not realise how special they r and i just hmnfgnfdm they r so awesome. they r SO AWESOME. i love everything abt em. so beautiful. so intelligent. so fun and fun 2 b around. anyways, here it is (its bad bc i dont write love poems, sorry!)

Love Song - “Something To Believe In”

“You have a way with words,” She tells me.

She smiles like she really means it.

And I try and stop myself from guessing the ending.

I tell myself, I repeat it in my head,

“I am not a romantic. I do not wear a crown of thorns.”

And yet, I find myself sitting on bus-stop benches lately,

The love flowing out from me and through my pen

And I scratch her name into the wood beneath

Just like it is scripture.

I wander, like a dancer carving out their steps into the stage,

Through the leaf-littered trails and chilled cobblestone paths,

My heart beating like it can hear the music in the change of season.

In this way, I worship.

My body feels this pull to her address.

I’ve become the dove, released from the refuge after the deluge,

Mistakenly flying back to the only place I know,

But she’s turned the world into an ocean

As deep blue and as crashing as her eyes

And I am lost just by looking at her.

The brink of sacrifice, she compels me.

She is intelligently designed and it calls me;

Every gentle curve, every inch of skin,

The paint-splattering of freckles across her cheeks

That I long to connect like stars,

To understand her, to unveil her name and her story.

Her heavenly body could fit perfectly with mine,

Built from the same breath, the air of divine romance.

For forty nights and forty days,

I dreamt and day-dreamt of her.

I’ve shared jokes I haven’t quite figured out yet

And broken ribs from the joy of it all.

Her laugh tugs at my composure

Like a child tugs on a sweater sleeve:

Follow me, follow me.

I have something incredible to show you.

I would follow her into ash and brimstone.

If not just to see the flames light her features aglow,

Then to hold her hand over sharp stones and despair.

She brims with the freedom of the running mare-

And I know I am not meant to hold her. To reign her.

But just to behold her, exactly like that,

Silhouetted against the melting sky, her hair wild with wind.

To my knees, she brings me with a glance,

I ponder her in my prayers like sin.

She is the kind of beautiful you would find in a stained glass portrait.

To be called hers, I would forgo the colour in my cheeks.

I would yearn for the rapture of her kiss,

Even accepting the exile of her heartbreak,

And I would serve the penance of trying and failing to forget her.

All this, I can not bear.

I sit on the bus-stop bench. I fumble with the thought of her.

“I am not a romantic,” I start,

And the blood leaks from my temples to caress my lips.

“A way with words,” She told me.

Confess me, I think, for




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