Why must your youness be so
Impeccably imperfect,
That I cannot write you justice;
Cannot conjure even a shell of you.

Ever the joker you dance
At the edges of my vision;
Remain uncapturable yet unforgettable,
As I feverishly, fervently fail to
Sketch the shape of you.
My love,
I would slit my wrists with a ballpoint pen,
If only the ink ran a truer colour of you.

Rivers stain paper and corners curl crisp;
My pen runs dry over and over.