The sun is envious of the way she glows
And the moon whispers her name every night
like a prayer, a plea
Curl up in my craters and never leave
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.
in her mailbox.
