paper hearts

i wanted to write a poem
that was a little bit of what you are, but
i am starting to think that i can't do that.

because poetry is
words that flow in nice ways,
metaphors and similes to things
like summer rain and newspaper ink.

and you are none of those things.

you are not 4 a.m. love
or the pounding of my heart.

the spaces between my fingers
are the results of evolution or creation or luck,
not  a show of our perfect fit.

you are not the first thing i think about
when i wake up, or the last thing
in my mind before i go to sleep.

you are not my prince charming
or my true love.

the sun and moon
do not rise and fall in relation to your place in the universe.

you are not my other half
or the cheese to my macaroni.

you are not the core of my existence,
the wind beneath my wings,
or anything else like that.

you are nothing beautiful
or real
or imaginary.
you are not poetry or prose or proverb.

you are empty promises
and the back of my hand.

you are worn out converse
and run down dreams.

you are the tiny country that i can't find on the globe
and the paper cut on my index finger.

you are the sock i've been missing since last tuesday
and the holes in my jeans.

you are back road shortcuts
and a toaster in the bathtub.

you are life
and art
and waking up from a good dream.

and there are no metaphors or similes
for things like you.