Well you knew this was coming

It was just a matter of time,
Piles of poems stacked on what I was trying to avoid,
It is, the sappy love poem,
With the stars, kisses, love and wishes.
They are, the reason why,
I don't write poetry about love.

I clear the space around me, sigh "All right"
I think "Where to begin" Then think "what a lame way to start"
It is of course, "Sexy-pants"
The one who plays soccer in the rain, and to my surprise,
Likes to write.
He is, the one who never lets me sweep the floor, and of course,
He always holds the door.
The one who thinks drunk-dialing is inappropriate, well I do, too.
But I think there are always exceptions,
Especially when it comes to calling Jon.

He says we're not going anywhere,
And I don't believe him.
So I guess he is right.
It doesn't help when we watch the stars though.
And when he hugs me like that, and says good-bye last.

The strongest of stomachs churn,
And my face turns blue listing all the ways we are alike.
It's common interest, too.

I slam the door shut, locking all the questions in the house.
But all of them seem to escape by the time I get to work.
They flood-in, sometimes lifting me off the ground a little.
But then again, that might not just be the questions doing that.