I could ascribe to you few things.
Few metaphors represent your wondrous making.

If I were to compare you to the roaring waves,
far reaching sourced from still ocean depths,
like the conviction of your voice,
I would miss your true joy at growing from fault.

If I were to compare you to the setting sun,
sharing the glory of its day on painted sky,
like the skill of your hand,
I would miss the grounded feet with which you walk

If I were to compare you to the intricacies of a watch,
it’s beautiful movement formed by delicate layers,
like the way you put one foot in front of the other,
I would miss your collaborative tick.

If I do not tell you how wonderful you are I will miss you. If I do not listen to your dream then it will sour the sleep. If I do not shout I will miss your echo.

I hope to soon rid any other miss* from this paper,
as our Ruler has more notches for us to mature.
Now I will be happy right here, sitting across from,
lying next to, on the other side of your screen.