I don’t have to only write love poems.
I could type away about the rustic orange changes in the
Michigan scenery on my road trip to Midland.
I could write on how the autumnal colors blur together
into an ombre of ocre and aimless whimsy.
I could write about the freckles of peaks
the Cascades used to adorn from the starboard
side of my uncle’s sailboat.
If I desperately wanted to, I could
write about how much I wanted to drown myself
in the rainforested mysticism only found in the
I could- but a muse just walked into my coffee shop
and I’d rather spin the story I created in my head
for the two of us before he could even put in his coffee order.
I’d rather write about the eye catching moments with the only person
whose eyes somehow match his hair color and the way he says
“I’ll know you’ve been here.”
I only desire to ramble on about the happily ever-almost-afters that could’ve
happened if I weren’t the “hide behind my poetry” type.
I don’t have to only write love poems, but
how else would I live if I didn’t?
By Gabrielle Crone