I've never collected trading cards
Though I once collected stamps
Until one day
The catalogue stopped
Sending them

I never followed the
Dewey Decimal System
In any place other than
The library
Where I spent my
Childhood days
Falsely convinced that the building
Was at least a block
Big

I've never been patient
For anything but a doctor
Though I once waited
Ten minutes
For the bus
And only got up to pace
Twice

But with her, I find myself
Collecting memories
Of snapshots I've taken
In my mind

Of her fingers
Tracing my face
And holding my hand
Gently
Because I'm never sure
How confident I should be
When holding her hand

Of her lips
As she talks
About things that
Excite her
And I watch them
Hearing her excitement
And wanting to kiss her

Of her teeth
As they are revealed
When she smiles
When she speaks
And as they bite me
I want to make her smile
When the world goes
Boom

Of her eyes
So beautiful
Framed by glasses
Or frameless
And looking
Up, around, at me
Displaying her emotions
And other
Evasive thoughts
And I can't help wondering
What runs through her mind
But it could be
The same that runs through mine:
Unfiltered bliss

Of her hair
The way it tangles so
Easily
The way it reflects
Her and matches her
And how the first time
We went bowling
I used it as a blindfold
So she would be surprised
When I
Kissed her

But with her, I find myself organizing
These memories
These thoughts
This unbridled energy
That is the happiness
She brings

The organization reminds me
Of a library
Or the TARDIS
Because in here with the memories
It seems bigger
And I might be a madman
"But it just may be a lunatic
You're looking for"

But with her, I find myself patient
I can wait
Steeping in happiness
Like oolong in a clay ***
Getting stronger and stronger
The longer away I am
I can grab my
Bag of memory
And every moment with her
Builds my supply

Like nothing could get me down
Not now
Not for the predicted future
And sure Chaos
Is hard to predict
But **** patterns, I'm making a beeline
For her

She was pretty.
Scratch that.
She was beautiful.
Scratch that too.

She was more beautiful,
Than a sunrise on a winter morning.
Or a rainfall on an autumn day
Where the leaves dance in the wind
And fill the sky with life.
More beautiful than a flower
That breaks through the cracks
Of a concrete garden
And brings color to the air.
She was more beautiful,
Than any poem that's ever been written.

She was beautiful.
Scratch that.
She still is.