The poet and the engineer
"The moon is a nice rock", you say,
as I chuckle at the most unromantic
description of my muse.
Because all I see is a hot air balloon
rising each night to peck the sun on his cheek;
a crystal ball, anchored in the unknown,
holding the tale of a million lovers;
an iris peeking from behind its starry sheet
as it maps out the constellation of you and me.
Perhaps I'm too much of a poet,
wishing for you to see us as a poem,
when all you see is a rock formation
in perfect balance, like friendship.
Then again, you are the kind of man
who could make ice cream feel like snow,
without likening it to Mount Everest.
And I think to myself:
yea, the moon's a nice rock,
keeps me grounded to the earth.
I wish you were my rock.