Sex with a Box

I should have married a poet..

Who could whisper butterflies in my ear,
and If I came to fall, he would catch me with glitter and some shiny, intangible words.
He would label and re-name that box of band-aids with supporting, descriptions of no worth.

He would tell me I smelled like violet thunder,
with a zest of polished pearl.
We would fuck in a sea of cotton.
Waves, crushing me in white swirls.

He would paint me pretty synonyms,
they would tangle birds nests in my hair;
bedding, for ideas that could fly.

He would seek to see me when I would rather be unsought,
Matted with moldy morning blemishes and swollen eyes..
Yet, he would still fix me balloons for breakfast,
and serve me Emerson for dessert.

He would regard me as a creature,
his tongue would always stay ripe;
with love, set to be sung.

At night, that sound would be crickets
beckoning us to come walk
and he would hold my sapphire hands tight,
because poets know
gems should never parade their colors, alone.