The Problem With Rhymes

I grew up thinking
that poetry—the ABAB thing--
was the surest way of displaying
love that’s lost in words.
But the difficulty of alternating
passion
on indifferent paper lines
is something is lost in between them.
There isn’t always a perfect
rhyme
to describe the light reflected in
their eyes when you share smiles
and stories--
their laughter is a rhythm
felt deep in your bones,
breaking conventional poetic patterns--
because ABAB can’t match kisses
to matching syllables,
it just doesn’t cut it.
I doubt Shakespeare knew the beat
of all lovers’ hearts
when he penned sonnets
for centuries of sentimentalists
He confused rhyme with rhythm--
the beat that’s composed between shaking lips
pattern-less, defying skeleton schemes.
The problem with rhymes
is I can’t always align your hips
and mine
by reciting sonnets that don’t get
that few words rhyme with
sex, or
interlocking fingertips on rainy afternoons in faraway cities--
but I can spell it out in the cycle of these words
and make it sound just like
I love you.