I Write About Girls.

I write about girls —
the ones with big hearts
and soft lips made only
for kissing

I write about their wishing-well
eyes — not because they are
dark nor vacant — but because 
they are indecipherable, and I cannot
ascertain to what depths their irises
will allow me to swim.

I write about girls
with broken hearts, living their
lives blinded by insecurity, when
magic and beauty flutters from
their delicate hands, in the
crevices of their swan-like necks

these girls are not mine
to gawp with a man’s eye —
they are not lustful apparitions 
left to explain the empty spaces in
my bed
but they are here, pressed between
pages 

I write about these
girls because
life is cruel,

these girls are just another 
dream that I can
never become.