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.