You’re a beautiful mystery clad in gorgeous enigma.
You’re poetry that looks good in a skirt.
You are a notebook, a yearbook, a sketchbook, a burn book,
every facet of you written in swirling cursive,
rhymes and famous signatures snaking between cinnamon hair and cleverness.
You’re the first dream of the boy too scared of nightmares to sleep again.
You are the taste of honey and cigarettes on the lips of the first girl that boy ever kissed.
You are a dictionary. Your picture isn’t just under “beautiful.”
It’s under “dangerous” and “witty” and “myth”
You are a poem, a telltale heart beating inside a lesson in vengeance,
temporary only because nothing gold can stay.
You are the raw words read aloud by the daring poet,
standing beneath midnight moon,
the power of the throne,
the breath of a whispered promise falling upon the ear,
the warmth of kisses on the cheek,
the passion of all hope there ever was in trust and truth.
You are the fire in lightning,
the sparkle in the snow and the glitter in the rain,
the fierceness of the wind and the gentle, soothing peace,
the blazing chill of winter and the roar of summer’s heat.
But you’re still a mystery.