The Man Who Didn't Need Wings

 

Finally, I met him..  

At the moment I had let go of love.  

He didn’t ride horses,  

but walked beside me.  

With flaws like flowers.  

He never plucked flowers for his mistress,  

but hid books in her hands.  

Not carved in marble,  

but strong like blackstone.  

He never spoke of butterflies,  

nor knew how to be a chatterbox  

with petals and poems.  

But he knew how to listen,  

even when I was wrapped in silence.  

He wore wisdom like cologne.  

His coat carried the scent of equations,  

blended with Neruda’s poems  

and Van Gogh’s brushstrokes

bewitching like Mozart’s violin.  

He wasn’t perfect.  

He was flawed like flowers  

soft, sharp, and deep,  

like a beautiful Chekhov novel.