Hell, I would write a poem about you
and not talk about your eyes
the way they don't even see me now
or your mouth, the way
they don't seem to recognize my name
or your hair, which reminded me of summer
the way they flaunt and dance with the wind
back when you haven't cut it
or your hugs, one arm up my neck
the other holds my arm
or your scent that is beyond aesthetic
of an artwork placed behind your ears
or laugh, the way it makes me
think of the future,
or your name
which is always be
precious

I guess I failed, about not talking about them
all of them, all of you
I guess I am not yet tired
I guess want to be reminded
I guess I still can write about you
even if it's Sunday, and I've missed a thousand masses
I am not sacrilegious, you are

"when I fell in love with your long brown hair,
you decided to cut them off..."

But I didn't fell off
I stayed here
Hell, writing another for you
always