The Poet

By Muriel Palanca

I cannot write about love as well as poets do.

They talk of the chances they never took, the things they didn’t say.

They reveal dreams that never became anything more than a yearning behind closed eyes

And they compare the rain to all the things inside they can’t bear.

They create sweetness in the midst of decay and build monuments out of ruins.

If I were a poet, I would paint you with rose petals

And the moonlight melting through your windowsill.

I would compare you to a celestial body residing in the heavens

Or perpetuate your strength through the gravity of the earth to which I surrender.

But I am not a poet.

I am a fragile mortal with a delicate heart

And I expose to you what cannot be taken back.

My words are not the Grand Canyon or the Taj Mahal.

My home has a blue door, a dog too playful for his own good

And you.

My gift is wrapped in brown paper. My intentions are pure.

And though I cannot write about love as well as poets do,

I want to give you with all my heart what I cannot leave unsaid.

I love you.