Metaphor

I wanted to write a metaphor about the way I feel when
your eyes grow large and I know you want to tell me I’m beautiful,
but your pupils are not made of onyx,
and your gaze does not turn me to stone.

I couldn’t compare us to Greek myths;
you are not Medusa, and I am no Venus.
Still you manage to see beauty in these blue eyes of mine,
these long limbs, these bony hips,
and leave me breathless and still.

There were no fireworks,
no thousand sunsets, no gleaming trombones,
no butterflies in my stomach.

It is only that suddenly we are alone,
and there are rabbits jumping in my chest—
and a lake pressing behind my eyes—
each only wanting to find their way out to you.