The sun is envious of the way she glows

And the moon whispers her name every night

 like a prayer, a plea 

I, of course, cannot blame them, 

For planets align when she parts her lips,

Each tooth Oscar Wilde’s tombstone,

Covered in kisses from every great lover, and I

Am still foolish enough to believe that she could love me.

Why would I be worthy

 of the girl who planned the constellations 

On the backs of diner napkins?

I would paint her a million starry nights 

If I could kiss her under just one.

It’s a shame that Van Gogh 

Has already beaten me to it. 

He painted every sunflower just for her,

I’m certain of it.

There are love letters carved in the tops of mountains 

Just for her 

And I would hike each one, 

In high heels,

To win her heart but

I don’t even have the guts

To leave this poem 
in her mailbox.