I've written a million poems, a million words about you. They're all worthless, and could never do your existence justice. Could never unclench my heart, or dry my sweaty palms.

Not a single letter could be added to any word to properly describe the utter being, and ethereal being that is you.
My pen is useless when I look at you. My words are jumbled symbols that make no sense when you even sigh.

My fingertips lose all magic. My art is worthless when I look into your eyes. There is no delicate stroke of my pen that could truly form the words that describe what I see in you, or your soul.

I'm merely a fool, lovesick and throwing up complicated nonsense that my soul cannot contain. Poe would be ashamed.

****. I just love you.