Your hair was an auburn waterfall,
like Rapunzel’s,
save in a different hue.
(In truth, it was not,
it scarsely reached
the small of your back)
You walked with the ferocity
of a tigress on the prowl-
graceful, but oh, so vengeful.
(You merely sauntered
like a lithe cat, outside of my poetry)
Your hands fit into mine
like two hemispheres of a penny,
meant to be together as one.
(Your whole hand only just
filled my palm,
so small and petite it was)
I could write you odes
for your every breath,
Sonnets for your every heartbeat.
(They would all be the same
in essence,
merely rephrased
with varying metaphors)
I love you with all my heart,
and I wish to love no other.
(There is no poetic hyperbole
in my proclamation of the same)
Perhaps one day I will find the words
to tell you how beautiful you are,
in the literal sense of the word.
(And I hope that until I do,
you ignore the imprudence
of my mystical world of metaphors)


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