Every time I try to write about you,
I can't.
I want to say something,
Anything,
About you.
And I want it to be both beautiful
And sad.
I want it to ****** your image
Onto the paper,
I want to reflect your very demeanor,
Through my words.
I want to create a prose
So touching,
And harsh,
That all my other works
Wither up
And become stale.
I want to taste you,
Feel you,
Smell you,
Hear you,
See you,
In my writing.
And then,
After it's complete.
After I have exhausted all my capabilities,
After you are vulnerable,
And raw.
After my name is scrawled at the bottom left hand corner,
And yours, at the top, centered.
I want to take it in my hands,
Tear it into a million tiny pieces,
And throw it into the fire.
Watching it burn,
Slowly,
Yet only for a moment.
I want to make this feeling I have tangible,
Only so I can destroy it.
But it's still thriving, right out of my reach.
And every time I try to write about you,
I can't.