You asked for me
to write you a sentence,
so I wrote a poem about why
I couldn’t live without you.
You asked me to write a short story
about our love,
so I wrote a book with you
as the plot, ******, and
my falling action,
and binded it
with my bare hands.
You wanted a novel,
so I wrote a trilogy with
thousands of pages,
and I still felt as though
I could not capture
how much I cared for you.
But you told me
you wanted more proof,
because you didn’t yet understand
that I could write entire encyclopedias
about your eyes
and create atlases
filled with maps and charts on
the perfect curves of
your smile.
You didn’t get that
I could, and would, write
anything
for you, about you,
that would let the world know
how incredibly
in love with you
I was.
I didn’t want to stop until the
trees were gone
and I ran out of paper,
or every pen and printer
ran out of ink.
I didn't want to stop
until I had written
enough for you to
comprehend the
amount of love
I held.
I tried and tried,
and wrote and wrote.
But,
it seemed there weren’t enough words
in the dictionaries
I created,
or myths and legends
in fables and fairytales
that provided the
analysis of my love
for you.
And you kept asking for more
and more
and my hands grew tired and cramped,
marked with papercuts
that wouldn’t close,
trying to keep up
with your confusion
and inability
to understand.
I found myself running out
of things to write
and words to write them with,
the ink was starting to fade,
and my mind began to
draw blanks,
straining to find the reason
as to why I started writing
in the first place.