Early morning. Sun through the kitchen window.
The smell of coffee fills the room,
fresh ground and rich and a little bitter
the way coffee should be.
You are there too. Fresh-faced, hair towseled,
a small smile on your face.
You are laughing at me,
at my profession of your beauty so early
in the morning. It is almost a game.
I tell you what I see, You tell me how it cannot be,
parroting someone else’s words,
making them your own, no matter the lie.
I am used to that. But it does not stop me.
I will tell you the truth of you,
each and every day, and suffer the laughing
and the deflections and even
the words of liars in your life who measured you
with calipers of detail, unable to see
the whole of you.
I will tell you the truth of you, And you will laugh.
And I will tell you again. And maybe, just maybe,
someday those voices in your head
will become mine.
About this poem
A love poem. I am guessing a lot of men feel as I do about the women they love.
The picture was taken at the Sterling Rennaisance Faire, years ago.