Hear! Hear!

(I am) deprived of perfect words
for all of them are already printed
in your skin, and mine (words)
are nothing but black and white dialogue
spoken gazillion of times
by the cracks on your soles.

No rhyme.
            (No b  r  e  a  k  s)
No scheme.

(You said) they’re just rusty letters
that can cut no deeper
than your lover’s sonnets and odes;
just spineless,
hyperbolic cliche
intangible to be wrapped in my
paper plane love letters (for you);
just “i love you’s” and  metaphors
comparing you with the crescent moon,
with the dew caught on taro leaves
or with the leafless pines by the freeway...

But (they’re) not hollowed
love-lyric poems ornamented with gems
satisfying only the eyes;
for they are free-versed song
exploding with eternal love.