And here I am.
One a.m.
Writing about you again, although I swore I wouldn't.
There's just so much to write about.
You fill me with poetic words and phrases that can't help but fall from my mind onto the pages beneath my pen.
I can't help but write about you, everything about you.
I want the world to know how you're a paradox with your big-*** truck and your hipster music.
And how you softly kiss my forehead while you hold me in your arms.
I want to yell and scream about our love, but I'm shy, so I silently write about your big eyes that so seriously look into mine.
And your strong hands that slowly run over my skin.
I need the world to know about your mind, how smart and interesting it is.
So I fill the pages of my book with tiny praises of you.
My biggest compliments strewn across the lined paper, compliments that you will never read.
But that's okay.
You know what your mind, hands, and eyes are like---it's the world that doesn't.
So, world, read my poem and see the big-eyed, strong-handed boy that for some reason has chosen to love me.
Picture him with his unsteady walk because he's afraid of what's in store for him.
But don't miss those flashes of courage that sometimes radiate from him as he chooses to fall in love anyway.
See the boy so full of life, yet unaware of what he's capable of.
Do you love him?
I do.