Why is it that I have never written a poem
For you
For your beauty, your intellect, your smile,
The way you dance within the sunlight,
Your hair breaking from raven to honey to the
auburn hues of an autumn moon, and melting
As you twirl each strand within your hands,
each lock glistening like the northern lights.
Why have I failed to capture your eyes
into words, for they behave as prisms would,
Separating each nuance of sadness into the simple
Joys of life and light
And softly spoken
desires.

Why have I never written love sonnets for the girl who
Sits in the corner, smudged ink and coffee stains
Coding the language of her books, as she
Writes love sonnets
for every boy
who
decimates
her self worth.

Why is it that I have failed to love myself