Sometimes I worry there will come a day
Where you study my writing, frantically searching
For where you hold your place.
Questioning, "Could a writer truly love me
If I can't find myself in the subtext of her words?"
And you'll spend your nine to five distracted
Replaying each stanza and line in your head
Blindly searching for a hint of your importance
In the way I arranged the alphabet into scribbles on a pad.
And when you wrack your brain and still
There's no sense of you in any of it
Your thoughts will race with ideas that you are not worth
My messy handwritten interpretations of my emotions.
I have not put you into my own order of letters and phrases
And praised you in metaphors and vague comparasons
Because even if I tried to write it out point blank
I'd never have the poetic ability
To piece together a beautiful enough string of words
That would ever do you justice.
You are worth more than any sloppy stream of consciousness
And even the most intricate metaphor.
If I cannot capture your importance in words perfectly
I will not attempt to at all.