I don’t like this.
I don’t want you to end up as my poetry.
I want to breathe you and see you.
Feel you and not read you.
Taste you and not waste you.
Hold you and not throw you.
I want to find you and not archive you.
I don’t want this to end with you as words on my page.
I want you to be the language on my lips.
And the caress from my fingertips.
No you shall not end up as my poetry.
Hopefully, not this time.