by pavita singh

You say you’re not a poet,
But the way you describe your dreams,
All your fantasies, hopes, and desires,
The way you explain to me your pain,
You invoke in me feelings that aren’t my own,
That to me is poetry.
You say a paper filled with words is empty,
That you can only write with structure,
Can’t just let your pen flow.
But the way you express yourself with eloquence,
Make me wish I could watch your lips move without rest,
The way I see beautiful images in all your words,
That to me is poetry.
You say that you’re incapable,
Of seeing what can’t be seen.
But the way you know what I’m feeling,
Without my uttering any sound,
The way you perceive subtle messages,
In anything I do, or write, or say,
That to me is poetry.
You say you can only follow rules,
Since you don’t want others to have the wrong impression.
But the way you write to me,
Without caring what I think,
Like when you said magic is something ruined if understood,
Or when you defined love as a mysterious, intangible,
Inexplicable obsession,
The way you make me feel a burning in my chest,
A bouncing sensation in my stomach,
I say it from the core of my heart,
That to me is poetry.