We love,
like free verse:
unapologetically.
I,
the pen.
You,
the afflatus.
Our phrases,
intertwinded.
You,
the meter.
I,
the rhyme.
Hearts,
flutter –
an onomatopoeia.
This,
our syntax.
All my best personifications,
swallowed by my hands
in your hands.
My best similes,
like a four-letter word,
unspoken.
My best metaphors,
rose-colored glasses –
perfection.
Cliche.
We speak
always in alliteration alone.
We sing
hyperboles
for aeons of waiting.
We sigh
in archaisms,
and I am fain to breathe them in.
Your words,
euphonies
to lonely ears.
I repeat you after three lines,
like three breaths.
Inhale –
two syllables.
Your voice,
a stanza;
mine,
a refrain.
We,
like poetry.

//A Panegyric, 6/6/2014
//Collette Kristevski