There's a novel inside each and every one of us. A story to be told. A cricket that lived in the library of your imagination. A poet. A narrator. Someone who actually wanted to tell your story. The poet. The poet that always wanted to speak for a change. The very same who was told later. At a different change in scenery. And he waits.

And he waits.

And he waits until finally he can't any longer. A tsunami swells in the pit of his chest that night the poet just wanted to profess everything in the front seat of your car with the stars above us. Smoke tendrils that left your lips and fogged up the window. The same smoke tendrils that made our eyes all glossy. And low. How low that valley of self-detrimental actions to a false pretense that the universe was never going to allow. So instead you let the tsunami take its course out of your eyes in the shower, telling yourself you aren't crying, that the hot water is just a little too much. And the steam rises. And there's a rainbow.

Just like the rainbow I see every time you happen to look my way.

And my love, that smile gets me every time.

But I think the poet inside of us all dies when we realize there can be no sentence to make someone fall in love with you. We read these tall tales of love potions and dragons where the brave, heroic knight dashes in on a gallant black steed and the villains love potion never touched a tongue. And the townsfolk cheer. And the poet is dead. The story ends.