I haven’t written you a love song,
not from any lack of romance
for you color my skies with your eyes
and your lips flood my mind with irrational thoughts.
I often write of made up lullabies shared over nights we haven’t had,
or some imaginary girl falling for this made up guy,
that doesn’t sound anything like you or me.
I don’t know what stills my lips
when trying to write of the night skies we’ve shared,
for they are the most beautiful ones I’ve seen.
I think it may be because,
even if I wrote with the most complex and beautiful language
it would never do you, or the days we spent
watching movies in the back of my truck, any justice.
Our love is messy and incomprehensible
mainly because I still can’t translate what I feel
when your hands brush against mine, gently yet with excitement,
as if there were magnets in them that just had to connect with mine.
It’s not poetic, it’s cheesy, and messy,
but it’s the best thing that has ever happened to me.
So please take this convoluted attempt to work out my feelings,
as your love song, my confusing, jumbled, and truthful ode to you,
the muse to all the fantasies I write.

There's a novel inside each and every one of us. A story to be told. A cricket that lived in the library of your imagination. A poet. A narrator. Someone who actually wanted to tell your story. The poet. The poet that always wanted to speak for a change. The very same who was told later. At a different change in scenery. And he waits.

And he waits.

And he waits until finally he can't any longer. A tsunami swells in the pit of his chest that night the poet just wanted to profess everything in the front seat of your car with the stars above us. Smoke tendrils that left your lips and fogged up the window. The same smoke tendrils that made our eyes all glossy. And low. How low that valley of self-detrimental actions to a false pretense that the universe was never going to allow. So instead you let the tsunami take its course out of your eyes in the shower, telling yourself you aren't crying, that the hot water is just a little too much. And the steam rises. And there's a rainbow.

Just like the rainbow I see every time you happen to look my way.

And my love, that smile gets me every time.

But I think the poet inside of us all dies when we realize there can be no sentence to make someone fall in love with you. We read these tall tales of love potions and dragons where the brave, heroic knight dashes in on a gallant black steed and the villains love potion never touched a tongue. And the townsfolk cheer. And the poet is dead. The story ends.