An Open Letter for Those Who Love a Poet

A poet is the epitome of the unrequited lover– agape– open-eyed manic at the craned neck of night– entangled in the unfinished verse that never relented– never turned their head in caesura, trailed off without punctuation.

A poet is in love with a concept they do not want to have a definition for, they piece it together with their walks alone on brisk mornings that make their faces prickly Velcro– peeled off like unhealed scabs. They write it in syrup on burnt pancakes.

A poet wears binoculars around their neck in case they catch a glimpse of a stanza pacing the telephone wire– the chirp of chiasmus in the throat of a chick-a-dee– indented metaphor moaning in a morning  dove.

A poet is making notes underneath their tongue– muttering sonnet titles in a game of whisper down the alley with themselves– thinking of your lips like litotes–

A poet will never feel solace in an end-stopped line. The line kisses them goodnight but never guarantees their affection will still be somewhere in the sunrise.

A poet is nervous and sifts similes through their fingers like panning for gold in a droughting river– uses fish-nets for flip-flops so as to not miss a fleck of passing language between their pinky toes. Follow their eyes on the sidewalk–

Touch the base of their neck when their unwritten ellipses at the end of the day keep them from sleep. Tell them it’s perfect even if it’s not.

Tell them you love it.

You love it.