And it's almost sad
That the messy
Scribbled handwriting
On the back of a crumpled old napkin
That tries so hard to convey you
Through only the most diverse
Array of adjectives
Will never be able to make a reader
Really see the storm in you eyes
Or taste the apple flavored Chapstick
Covering the lips that you use to
Do things like both kiss me,
And tear me to pieces.

It's indescribably lonely
Being the only person
In an infinite amount of space
That will ever understand the unparalleled purity of the little phenomenons that are you,

But at the same time,
If anyone else were ever able to experience
These things as well,
I'd never breathe again.