I imagine you are tired of me writing you poetry
and I understand doing so with such frequency
is bound to diminish its effects,
if it had any to begin with.
But the problem is that I have yet to tire of you
or the rock candy taste of your name on my tongue
rolling and jingling and solid.
And I have yet to tire of the ghosts of your voice,
cotton candy soft and sweet in my ear
as I slip away into sleep each night.
And I have yet to tire of the faint memories of your touch
that leave my skin buzzing like effervescent soda,
cool and refreshing and familiar.
And I have yet to tire of the last lingerings of your scent in my sheets
the sweet cinnamon sweat that clings to me bed
like a bittersweet cloud.
I am sure by now you have tired of my words
but I will give them too you anyway,
because I have yet to tire of you.