She doesn't know you
but she could tell you your favourite song
because it reminds her or the backs of your hands,
older than they would seem
and much wiser than her.

You've never spoken but your voice
is her favourite song.
Continuously playing in the back of her mind,
like a broken record
you don't want to turn off.

She too
is a broken record of your name
Yet she does not know what it is,
like its resting on the tips of her lips
I imagine her
resting on the edge of yours.

She tries to write poems
about how you make her
weak at the knees.
Frustrated,
she tells me how she cant write your perfection.
It is endless
and effortless
and compares to nothing.
She often then contradicts herself by
Comparing you to the vastness of space
and the brightest stars.

He is all of me,
she says.
She knows you better in her dreams
than she knows her own mother
who knows not of the love she has given.

She knows you'll love her because she is
the sort of person who steps on every crack
And reads obscure books
with strange names.

You will love her because shes pretty
and ambitious
and astute and charming.
She is endless and effortless
and compares to nothing,
you will often contradict this by
comparing her to the vastness of space
and the brightest stars.

She will be all of you.
Her name
Her lips
Her love
will rest on the edge of your lips.
And you will love her,
as she does you,
as I do her.