He calls you beautiful, or even sexy, I’m sure,
But that’s where he stops, isn’t it?
He’s never attempted to describe the way
sunlight ignites your freckles,
making the stars in the heavens burn in jealousy,
or try his best to explain the precise moment when your laugh
hits his eardrums, and makes him feel like the luckiest man on Earth.
He’s never told you how your hair will just
above your collarbone, dancing ever so lightly upon your skin.
He’s probably never told you that you,
and you alone,
are the surest proof of God,
for there is no way that you could have happened by chance.
But, maybe, that’s what you want.
Something safe, something that presents little risk,
Something that you can take or leave.
Because you’ve been there,
caught between the waves of isolation and uncaring,
and you’ve clung to happiness like driftwood,
only to have it dashed against the rocks of denial,
so you’ve learned to let go of real love,
the kind that pushes you to be better,
that kind that takes you to heights you’ve never dreamed of.
Maybe all you want is someone that will take you at your base value,
who doesn’t want to inspect the cracks,
who will cower at your demons,
Because anything deeper would just be too painful,
and you could not survive it another time.
If you aren’t willing to fall,
You’ll never be able to fly.
And your wings are much
too large for his cage.