I Am Not A Poet.

I am not a poet;
words do not flow freely from my brain
to a pen
to a page.

I am not a poet.
My vocabulary is academic and varied, but my words
arrange themselves in awkward jumbles
that pour out of my mouth into a heap
of tangled sentiments.

I am not a poet.
I want to tell you that your kiss tastes
like blackberry brandy in hot apple cider;
tastes
like a cashmere sweater sliding over my belly;
tastes
like holding hands with my first crush;
but all I can manage is:
“You taste good.”

I am not a poet.
But, if I were, I would tell you
that your touch burns me like an over-fed log fire;
tell you
that your fingers on my hips sear me like a brand;
tell you
that loving you is as thrilling,
and as terrifying,
as loving a star the moment before it burns out for good.

Too bad I’m not a poet.