This is more than a poem—
I have a crush on a poet.
Thinking about her wraps me in ribbons of purple fleece and valentine cotton.
There's something about her energy when she writes on Writco here;
She creates images of stories, but I see her at the window of its ending,
Looking at her art—and I think she is the best art ever.

The charm in her choice of words is like a scent from a flowering hydrangea.
It rains evenings and blue every time I read.
I create her face, laugh, tear with how she writes, regardless of the theme.
I know how she walks by the way she begins a poem—
A one beautiful poem she is.

She is my third place on a bad day.
She writes like she knows her worth, but I think she is worth more than that.
I look in the mirror and see words she wrote, creating her soft, pretty lips on my neck.

What is the matter with me?
I hate myself for not keeping up with the princes she writes about.
I hope I cross her head when she thinks about them.
Her attitude in the prompts she chooses gives me the niche—
She's into tea and cuddle.

I have been taking at least two cups,
Seeing her reflection bounce off the cup every time I lay it down after a sip.
I write with a pillow in my chest, probably; it knows more than my mouth ever said.
I love this poet, a cotton something in my ears—
Like I haven't been broken enough to lose all pieces left to love.

My heart lost—now I love with lungs.
I am not playing games; I am falling in love from the highest you can climb.
She—all kinds—my heart wishes to desire for Valentine’s.

I look at her small profile picture the same way I look at my moon.

You,
Disturb me
Every year,
You
Disturb and go.
Disturb me
Every minute,
Disturb my heart.

Disturb me
Every time—
Disturb me more.



#valentine🩶
© Kaiso Isaac