one dollar pizza

you, unfinished

You are not a metaphor.
Not a simile, not a slant rhyme,
nothing short of
I have tried to fit you into
neat boxes and ten-line poems
with a volta in the middle,
but the only real turn
is the twist of your hips as you spin
down Fulton Street.

We climb through Queens and Brooklyn,
and on the subway home,
after our first kiss,
I try to capture it in a sentence.
Sea-salt lips and skylight eyes,
the steel drum of your heart as I held your waist
and buried my nose in your hair.
But those are just words,
and you are just you.
So as long as we split one-dollar pizza on the pier
and pretend that I like you
only means I like you,
I am perfectly content
to live in the moment
and let the words fall away
like water sliding off the dock.