trite

Don’t ask me to write
trite.
The ink hides inside my pen
and then,
dries,
dies,
cries.

I know love poems should be
sappy.
But my love for you has never been
pinned
to such phrases,
phases,
crazes.

It has grown gently over time
without meter
without rhyme
filling out the empty spaces in my heart
till all the seams could burst apart
leaving a shining trailing sea
that would lead you straight to me

where we will sit and swing together
and teter-toter on forever.