A Poem You Won’t Read

He is not worthy of a single romantic hyperbole - for this is a poem he won’t read.

For he has pushed literature aside like the broccolis toddlers would hate to need.

They though would beg the differ when it’s viewed as little trees drenched in fondue.

But even then –

To him, no cheese-covered prose could ever seem to do.

Well, I could try -- with how

Roses are not always red, and violets are violet not blue.

Scatter them on expectations that are now actually dead,

the minute I’m with you.

I try to convince myself - barely a text given does not mean he’s not drawn.

Though unlike a cartoon, I breathe and my heart seems to beat the same when he’s around.

Perhaps it’s just that your millennial constructs of a heart emoji and a portrait’s symmetry won’t fuel our ship

As smoothly as the only thing cheesy about us – our pizza rounds, midnight quarter pounders and dip.

With such appetite to keep up - this stomach is too full for him to give it butterflies,

Yet there will always be room for a star witnessed round of milkshakes and curly fries

Of course - it should be noted that the sugar rush would make me tap dance some more along this shore,

Despite how he’ll roll his eyes and shush me, sighing that musicals are such a bore.

This is a poem he won’t read – and I’ll make it extra long

To make sure but maybe he’ll change his mind if he comes across it.

I’d distract him with metaphors and disappear like a rookie ninja –

Trying to erase the tracks that are made of things that I’ve already grown to admit.

How a person can seem so happy, is an uncharted territory to me.

Clutter swept under floors, I’d somehow trample on one for sure.

I’d trace his warm skin to map out and scavenge each with my shivering sad fingers

Only to be reminded that his ignorance could only give me bliss – ters.

He hides it all beneath the calm ruckus of his intonation, much like crashing waves.

Under a shield of rock that would numb the ears with its pulsing raves.

He floats, with his chin up and arms spread wide, cuddles in the embrace of the moment

While my back winds up in a loop of rails that swooshes to the same scheduled beat of anxious torment

These thoughts would wish it came in lesser forms instead, a canoe instead of a train maybe - to stay, to sway along.

Though regardless - he places me back to my track at times,

as his grin picks me up on a waltz made as habit without a song.

But again, he is not alike with objects and or of sempiternal wonders, he is simply he…

The way that I’m merely humane and made of what I am, that is -

A person who forces him to stay up to talk till it’s past 5 AM.

This is a poem he won’t read –

I’d take offense of his lack of interest, but at times it may be for the best.

For he does not attempt to bull up the word count

For love isn’t a final exam to be constantly reminded of, with

Grades, numbers on a scoreboard to flaunt

Nor notes to memorize, measurements to squint eyes, and agendas to revise

I know, they’ve told me that pretty flowers are better left be than to be plucked and complemented,

But there are times that he wouldn’t notice how my glance are glued to him, hard cemented

The following would still remain on its own as ideals, despite how he won’t recognize how it feels.

And I’d exhale to ask myself if he does the same

For he might not say much; he might not do much –

But so does the waves that I keep sinking my feet into

A reminder of how comfortable home is, a picture perfect frame

Perhaps characters that comes in thousands pave an agonizing way

To the realization on how poor your attention span is,

But it is only a glimpse of what I’m capable to describe and miss -

But then again this is a poem you won’t read.

Happy Valentine’s Day.