This is the poem that hasn't been written yet.
A dash of sad.
There are letters, and sentences, and paragraphs of
the lines on your face.
Your expressions.
This poem hasn't been written.
I describe in it, what it's like
To know your hand,
not just memorize it but know what all the nervous ticks
all the minute squeezes are.
To feel your heartbeat in your thumbs.
This is a poem with a growl.
Just a little bit because you are so much a part of my space
that I must kick you out sometimes.
But this malice,
is really just the orange to purple the
necessary opposite of the depths of how I
feel towards you.
This poem is how I think
any good poem should go.
I will think, I will laugh.
Of course sometimes cry.
But in the end, of course!
As all good poems should go.
I will be the better for having
read it.