Too long has it been since
ink has flowed from my veins,
seeped out of my pores,
and bled from my heart.
Too long has it been since
pencils have hastily scribbled
down words on the lines of
my numerous notebooks
and fingers have raced across
key after key;
the cacophony of clacks
is like music in my ears
as I listen to each stroke
of a new letter,
a new word,
a new experience.

I want to write about you.

The way you can talk
for hours on end
about your passions
and your fears
and all else in between.
I want to write about
the way your eyebrows raise
in the middle of a sentence
and I don't even think
you realize it.
Or the way your hands move
as you gesture around you
for emphasis and intensity
and you look like you could
be standing on stage
presenting a speech for
millions of people.
But oh god,
I wish I could tell you how
******* cute you look
when you speak.

I don't know what you see
when you look into my
murky brown eyes
but I can tell you that
I could stare at your face
forever without feeling bored
because you are the pearl
trapped inside of an oyster.
You're the luminous moon
and the burning sun
and the stars and the
diamonds and the
treasures you find
under your mattress.

I want to write about
your smile and your laugh
and your bony kneecaps,
and I know I'm only sixteen
but is it really that
ludicrous of me to say
that I want love?
I want to love your
complicatedness,
your deep thoughts
and your V-neck shirts.
I want to love the way
you look at me as if
I'm more than just a
scared little girl
and the way you
laugh at me sometimes
for no justifiable reason
but it's okay because
I'd do something
ridiculous everyday
just to see you look
so happy.

I want to love you.

But how can you leave so easily?
I know that it causes you
no pain to just walk away
when all I ever want
is for you to stay;
to forget about sleeping and
everything else in the world
except you and me.
But I know that good things
come in small doses
so I'll pick up the notebook
beside my bed,
and I'll write about you
instead.