plant your kiss against
my jawline and
there grows a poem
on the way someone’s face
never quite looks the same
as it does at 1:31 a.m., eyes
locked in indigo lighting,
what a privilege to witness
you firsthand, i can’t,
for the life of me,
pull my eyes away
and there, in the place
where your head met
my sternum, a poem for
the way my wildest,
brightest plans pale so
abruptly the moment they
are stood beside what is
real and unimagined
when i tell you that
you make me feel poetry,
i mean to say that
there are wildflowers
stretching themselves across
my wanting limbs, reaching,
with the rest of me, for you
michael king 