this is not a poem about her

she told me

to stop writing about her,

so this is not a poem

about a girl

who has a freckle

on the tip of her nose

and eyes that shine

brighter than stars.

this is not about

how i fell asleep on her

at two p.m.

that sunday afternoon-

nor is it about

how peaceful i felt

resting my head on her chest.

and this is definitely not a poem about how holding her hand

made me feel like atlas-

i was intertwining my fingers

with galaxies

and tracing universes

with my thumb.

no,

this is not a poem about any of that.

but if this was

a poem about her,

i would write about how

she closed her eyes

and looked towards the sky

whenever i kissed her neck.

i would mention how gorgeous

she looked from upside-down

when i was resting

my head on her thighs.

god,

if this was a poem about her,

i would carry on for hours

until my veins ran out of ink

or my hands cramped from

writing far too long.

but she told me to stop writing about her,

so i guess she'll be thankful

this isn't a poem about her.