there are no more metaphors,
no more things
to compare you to,
no more clichés
and used up lines of poetry.
I could write novels
about your eyes
and how they are like fire,
sonnets about your hair
and how it moves in the wind,
how it feels in my face,
what it did to my heart when
you nervously played with it.
I could write sheets of music
and try to emulate the sound
of your voice
early in the afternoon
or at night over the telephone.
but the world will run out of ink
before I'll be able to describe you,
and Shakespeare himself
could not write someone
like you.