My Lover

I think I used to write poetry in metaphor,
Because I did not know how to say what I meant.
It’s easy to hide your feelings
Behind roses and storms,
Underneath hyperboles and references.

Now, I look at my lover and I see her eyes,
Just her eyes, and that word is enough.
I brush my hands through her hair,
I smell her smell, and the perfumes of Arabia
Pale before the simple reality of my sensual experience.

I will strive to write more plainly, now,
And maybe it will be better,
And maybe it will be worse;
But it will certainly be more honest, good and bad,
And less afraid of how I feel.