"Save The Best for Last"
A #Poem written for my partner, Hikari Selene
You've waited for so long
While I loved others like a song
Enough verses written to fill a tome
Yet not once have I written you a poem
Faithfully you've waited
Silently you've anticipated
With lips and hands pressed tight
Loving me gently like moonlight
But darling look around and see
This life of ours is my poem to thee
It's shaped by all the little choices
And rhymes with both our children's voices
A masterpiece is not composed fast
I had to save the best for last
The pieces of our hearts ring like chimes
Celebrating a love meant to last seven lifetimes
I've lost track of where I end and you begin
To our generation that might seem like a sin
Let's blaspheme as two souls mix where they meet
I'll offer my prayers to the moon dust from your feet
For our love has been a mythic fairy tale
One forged like steel that's supple not frail
It's elegance woven with grace and simplicity
Into each minute since you first saw me
To you I was guided like Theseus's twine
By a crimson red ribbon with a grander design
Of a pinky promise made in case I lost my way
Silver light of night guiding towards dawning day
Only for you can I weave all this meaning
In a way beyond the first simple reading
You alone have all the tools to decode
Because you've made my heart your abode
Before, I could not see this poem for you
To observe it at all you need a bird's eye view
It's breadth and depth beyond simply vast
Because for you I saved the best for last
5 June 1584: Francis Hubert future #poet matriculates #otd at New College Oxford. His verse life of Edward II, written in the 1590s, was published in 1628 & 1629 (eebo) - when the subject of royal favourites was a hot topic.
Elizabeth Cary finished her own Edward II in 1627.
Are we vehicles
to propagate
nucleic acids,
or scaffolding
for feet that they
might erode the
topsoil, create
riverbeds, canyons,
or are we a chassis
for lungs that exhale
and push air and
move butterflies
effectively?
Having yesterday leftovers
today. I don’t feel meant
for the moment. Glances
and hollow helloes in the
back of the fridge, mossy.
Tough stuff thrown into
pot luck for simmering.
Achievements seem wilted.
We can always microwave.
Nutrition negligible. Chow
now, somehow.
I’m wearing sleeves
on my insides. All the
uncool kids are
internalizing shirts,
and well-dressed
emotions with
pocket squares
are nominated
for awards. They
like them. They
really really
like them. And
the award goes to