When I tell you that I love your poem, it’s not because of the syntax, or the meter, or the form, or the punctuation, or the alliteration, or the metaphor, or the similie, or the juxtapositions, or the clever devices you’ve laid down like a well-tailored hand of cards. 

I mean, it is because of all those things, but I’m not loving them for their textbook perfection, their attendance to a standard, the demonstration of a skill, or that you’ve thrown all the ‘rules’ away to suprise me…

It’s that I love all you’re hiding in there
tucked away in perfect breadcrumb crevices between the syllables
all of yourself that you’re teasing me with, the stories you do – and do not- share

I can just about see the flip of your hair, the flush of your cheek, the set of your jaw, the way you’re staring at me now. 

You’re holding up a mirror
either to your face, or mine, 
or both…

…and that’s what I love.