“Write me a poem in Morse code, goosebumps on my skin and lines on your neck.”

Stars map my freckles and all I want is you tracing constellations on my skin.

Tell me I’m your one and only because no matter how many times you say you love me, I will never tire of hearing it.

Let them run wild like the free spirits they are.

I stay up waiting and maybe that’s why I can’t sleep.

Creativity is born from you.

I say five more minutes but what I really mean is never leave me.

Remember when Hershey was the only kiss we were looking for.

We may be sweet but that is no invitation for taste.

Don’t shame a woman for speaking her truth because it should be universal.

My mind is the double helix that twists and turns around my voice.

Longing made a home in my body.

A year ago we battled atoms to see each other – spaced apart but still so close together in heart.

I could write another love poem but my metaphors get mixed like the drinks I had the night that more than our paths crossed – strongly.

The stars can’t compete with your glow so don’t let the world take it away.

Our love is that light up every room star.

Tied up by my heartstrings, I can’t break free from feelings – the restraints too tight, the love too strong.

Write me as if I were already a poem. Pen the stanzas as if storms and ships could birth something sacred. Color it a religious experience.

For poems are like rainbows; they escape you quickly.

When poems stop talking about the moon and begin to mention poverty, trade unions, color, color lines and colonies, somebody tells the police.

For my best poems were all written when I felt the worst. When I was happy, I didn’t write anything.

The fact that Saigyo composed a poem that begins, “I shall be unhappy without loneliness,” shows that he made loneliness his master.

He who creates three to five haiku poems during a lifetime is a haiku poet. He who attains to completes ten is a master.

And from that time on I bathed in the Poem Of the Sea, star-infused and churned into milk, Devouring the green azures; where, entranced in pallid flotsam, A dreaming drowned man sometimes goes down.

When I start writing a poem, I don’t think about models or about what anybody else in the world has done.