i'm not sure if i can
write poems about you
anymore.
today you told me
that you are not over
your gem.
i cannot compete.

i look for you in the morning
wednesdays, as i have said in the past
are my least favourites.
and it may be because i don't see you.
so i pose another question
then do i hate saturdays sand sundays
too?
maybe.
but i've caught myself dreaming of you
and even more so thinking of you
so on wednesdays
i take risks to see you
because that's the problem with them
you are here
but i don't get to see you.
at least on saturdays and sundays you are farther away
not that i like that any better
so on wednesdays,
i take risks for you

i asked you today
about a scar i had seen on you in the past
and you looked to where my finger had pointed
and shrugged.
"i don't remember."
was your reply.
so i pointed to another one,
on the other arm
and you looked there as well
"i don't remember."
was again your reply.

i paused, and withdrew my hand.
then you made the mistake to ask me
"where did you get yours?"
to which i replied,
"you already know."

however when writing a poem for you
and i've already written many
there is not enough room.
there are parameters to my poetry
and you
like the expanding universe cannot fit easily.
my dear,
there is no word for how my heart swells.
your concentration fascinates me
and i love listening to you breathe.
but there's not enough room for you here.
words on page, cannot begin to describe you
or even, how i feel.
you, the expanding universe,
my dear,
are never ending,
a string of words, a binary code.
but i try and commit you to paper.
and i admit, it's hard.

difficult but not bad
a.k.a. you
you're difficult
but you're not bad or hard to deal with
another poem for you dear.
i wish you could see
everything that i do
i've told you in the past you're difficult
but i say it with love
i try patience for you
and so far patience is with me
difficult, yes, but not bad.
you make me happiest.