Big

I want to kiss you.
Like big, fat kisses. Or angels. Or stars.
Or something. I don’t know.
Love poems never make sense to me.
Poets say things like “Your teeth are flowers.”
or “Your eyes are miracles.” But you
aren’t miracles. Or flowers. You
are some sweet boy with a good smile
and a shaky heart. Come kiss me.
I’m in love with the miracle of your body
beside my body.
—  Clementine von Radics, Love Poems