Can poets run out of words?

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As a poet,
I can easily associate metaphors
with my previous boyfriends.
In eighth grade,
my first crush was a butterfly in my stomach.
The guy who broke my heart
for the very first time
was a week-old moon,
half.
My last boyfriend
was a short story that stayed my favorite
for quite some time.
The first time I sang for one of my boyfriends,
that is what he became.
They’re more so my metaphors
than my exes.
But the guy I fell in love with last night
feels too human to become a metaphor.
His arms weren’t warm blankets
and his lips weren’t dragon slayers.
They were exactly what they are called.
When wrapped around me,
his arms felt like arms
holding me, pulling me closer.
When he kissed me,
his kisses tickled my neck
and made me moan,
exactly what they were supposed to do.
My point is,
this guy that I fell in love with
has made me speechless.
And despite being a poet,
it feels good.


Previous posts: 365.

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