Where do my poems go
After they reach your eyes?
Do they stick around in your mind?
Jumbling back and forth between meanings,
And those two perfect eyes.
Do they move to your heart?
Where they live and breathe
And turn your veins into art.
Or is their journey hardly remembered?
Leaving your lips
Faster than they entered.
I may never know what you do with my word bouquet.
You might not even read them,
But I’ll keep writing them anyway.