You are not a metaphor. Not a simile, not a slant rhyme, nothing short of 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.