writing about you is difficult.
every cliche comes to mind but i dont write those
because who wants to hear it and besides,
you deserve originality.
the truth is i have so much i want to say to you
and yet not a single consonant leaves my regretful tongue.
some poet i am.
i could write a poem just about your eyes
and another one about how much beer you drink.
i dont think either would really hit the spot.
you are a complex being that i tangle
myself up in every other night.
i stroke your hair and beg for kisses
unable to think about anything but how good
your skin feels against mine.
and yet when you ask me what i like about you,
i flounder again and again.
it would be so easy for me just to say
i love how observant you are,
how you love the rain almost as much as me,
how i love when you hold my hand,
and how i love that you seem like you need me.
its simple and yet when you ask,
my mind goes blank and i fail to make you happy.
i guess thats always my worry though--
making you happy.
but here i am,
writing about it instead of telling you.
****.