My love for you should not be poetry,

nor budding rose nor sunset nor

another usual aesthetic metaphor.

I’ve tried on every tired simile

I found, like ugly hats. What’s more,

for just how long can you sit still and watch

(and I mean really watch) the sun descend

as stars appear like needles through a swatch

of dusk? After all, you know how the rose

and sunset end:

with clarity,
with curling clouds and petals, drifting prose --

But if my love for you were gravity!