niko rey

He’s not a poet, but
I can tell from the way that he
traced the curve of my spine with his fingertips
that he thinks like one.

Because I could never fall in love with a man
who didn’t know
that the most tender thing
he could possibly do
was send me a poem by Baudelaire
and tell me, “I think you might possibly like this.”

Because fuck if that’s not one of my favorites.

And all I ever wanted was to fold myself into someone
who heralded unspoken thoughts and was a messenger
of words without words
of a kiss broken by silence,
of silence, broken by a kiss.

Because all of the men I’ve ever fallen for
weren’t really poets.

They just held secrets
like gold teeth in the back of their mouths,

and they kissed me, like I was the last poem in the world.