this is not a romantic poem.

I stare into your eyes like telescopes into the stars of your mind,
and think about you like a desert dweller thinks of water.

this is not a romantic poem.

if you called me at 2:30am on a Wednesday night before my chemistry final
just because you were lonely and bored,
I’d pick it up and pretend that
“oh don’t worry, I was awake studying anyway :)”
even though I fell asleep 3 hours ago.

this is not a romantic poem.

I could fall asleep to you talking.
your voice is like citrus and honey and cayenne pepper;
it picks me up,
and your passion burns like vodka.

this is not a romantic poem.

I love you more than an insomniac loves undisturbed sleep,
than a survivor loves a moments peace,
than a depressive loves hypomania.

but this is not a romantic poem.