I promised myself I wouldn't write about him
But he taste like the city
Hot running bathwater in some apartment across town and the quiet hum of traffic
The steam rising from a coffee cup on a tall kitchen table
Or how the rain kisses the skin of this concrete castle sidewalk
I promised myself I wouldn't write about him
But he feels like coming home
Walking through the front door stimulated by the smell of cinnamon and burnt coffee
As if the last memory of comfort greets you at the door, welcomes you inside to stay for a while
He is the antidote to any and every poison in my life
I promised myself I wouldn’t write about him
But you just don't get it, he is so beautiful that he makes the trees blush
People say it is autumn because they had to call it something
I only meant to love him for a minute but you can't love for only a minute because there is not time in love, there is only eternity, there is only forever when it is really love
He has showed me a love that has made me forget the taste of fear
And here I am, now, wondering
How many beautiful things have we ruined by deciding to write about them
I promised myself I wouldn’t write about him because no way of description could quite measure up
I need new metaphors and paradigms, maybe a whole new language
He's too much for what I am able to say
That’s why I promised myself I wouldn't write about him
I just can't help myself