I want to disguise you in a clever metaphor. Maybe compare you to a bullet or a freight train or some exotic animal.
I want to hide you on this page, make you a mystery, but there's too much of you in my head.
All I can think when I think of you is you, exactly the way you are.
That stupid little sound that you make in the back of your throat, and your crooked teeth and your crooked eyebrows. Your face when you sing, how happy you are, with the windows rolled down and your sleeves rolled up, tapping out the beat on the steering wheel. Your musical hands.
I want to grab onto one, grab it and hold on, and I want to feel your crooked teeth on my lip.
I want to hide you away on this page but there's too much of you.