they are but clichés

love,
lover.
we are two of a kind,
halves of a whole,
faces in a crowd.

if we are coffee and cream,
let me be the coffee
since i am darker
and have a passion for café au lait and espresso.

let us not be two socks,
since mismatched things are more beautiful anyways
and socks are to be worn on feet and thrown in corners.

i don’t want to be the glove to your hand,
though i’ll gladly cover you.
i’d rather have your hand in mine
lace my fingers between yours and hold your warmth.

let’s run away,
i’ll wander
and together we can both be the lust –
sleeping under the stars in the back of your car
all tangled up in each other.

are we pretentious enough to think ourselves as celestial
as the sun and moon?
no, we are merely stars if we’re lucky enough to grace the sky.

i’ll be the red balloon,
and you’ll be the string,
tying me down to the ground
lovingly.

i don’t want to be the words to your song,
but if i could sing i would be the voice.

no, i want to be the song you give up on now,
but years later find again in your kitchen drawer
stained with coffee and red lipstick.
and you’ll remember the girl who you used to call beautiful
with her dark eyes and her playful smile
who’s body fit to yours and it felt right.

years later, you’ll turn up between the pages of one of my novels;
the ones you’ll see people reading in coffee shops
and everyone who reads it will fall in love with you.
just in case you thought you’d go to waste,
lover,
love.