A Poem That Does Not Rhyme

Your eyes are my home

Some things don’t go as planned. But it’s okay
 At first it won’t be, healing takes time
 I wish I can keep you close and beg you to stay
 And I’ll write you poems that don’t really rhyme

I wish I can share with you my darkest fears
 And find refuge in you from thoughts that harm 
 I will water carefully our love with tears
 And make an eternal home out of your arm 

They say time is relative, it all depends on you
Time is just a number, and numbers don’t end
You are my time, my thoughts, and my dreams too
Only with you my scars seem to truly mend 

I love you most with your cigarettes that you don’t smoke
With your reversed sleeves and your hand holding whiskey 
I loved you most when you looked at me but never spoke
Feeling the warmth of passion while reading Dostoïevski or Bukowski 

I want to tell you that I love books and stars
I love conversations people tend to avoid 
I love nature more than I love clubs or bars
And I think life itself is a call of the void

Your hands are my shelter