Day Twenty Four: 'You Are Not' by Nathan Lunt

You Are Not

You are not a fragile flower, or a wilting winters bloom

That must be plucked and pressed between my pages,

You are not a crystal goblet

Into which I pour my subjectivity

Like wine for which you have no taste,

I know that you would sooner leap from pedestals and break

Then fill yourself with any definitions but your own.

You are not a painted portrait,

Oils cannot hold your shape and brushed break under the weight

Of trying to define your smile,

Canvases collapse in flames, and just a glance from you could

Shatter stained glass panes, and shake the Seven Wonders into rubble.

You are not a mint condition first edition,

Printing presses melt when asked to spell your name,

And laureates of great acclaim would shun such vast responsibility.

You are not a piece of poetry,

Even the most delicate intricacies of spoken word

Could never hope to capture but a fraction of your grace,

Stanzas stumble drunkenly across the page

And your disinterest causes sonnets simply to disintegrate.

For what you are, I have no frame of reference.

Left breathless by a beauty that seems effortless,

Rendered defenceless by a rebellious temperament that quite belies your tenderness,

If you had a need of me my love, then I would brave a hundred hoards of hellions,

And though I know you’d never need a saviour,

Maybe you could use a gentleman.

This is not a temporary sentiment.

How I feel about you makes all past and future feeling seem irrelevant,

And there is no exaggeration when I tell you that

You are my Everything. 

Nathan Lunt