I wish I could sing for you
But my voice is as rough as the canvas I paint on
And my medium has never been vocals
I have neither the talent or lung capacity
I am not rhythmic, simply loud.

I would write for you
But I fear I have already sent too many words your way
And you will begin to believe
(However truthfully)
That words are all I have to give.

I would paint or draw for you
But the lines produced by my clumsy, ringed fingers
Would never measure up to the delicate lines
Your hands trace into my skin.

I would simply show you I love you
By holding your hand
And brushing your hair from your eyes as you snooze
But you are too far
And my cold arms could never reach you.

I will offer you all this regardless.
My voice though it is rough and shaking.
My words though they are overused and ocassionally pretentious.
My artwork though it will never be as beautiful as your hands on my skin.
Myself, though I am cold and far away, graceless and indelicate, lost for words, and rough and broken.

I offer myself to you, broken pieces I may be, and I am yours to take or toss aside.
(Though I hope that you will choose the former)