You asked me                              
to write you
a love letter.
Instead I send
this poem
with unknown
intentions and
no expectations.

All I know is the simple thought
of your existence  
makes my cheeks go numb,
my thoughts jumble
I need to get more oxygen
to my brain,
my nerves never end
as my hands fumble,
my blood turns
to hot chocolate,
and my skin buzzing
like the trains
that pass by in the night when I wish
we could be together.

I lied before.
My hope is that
this is  not enough for you,
as it is not for me.
I also hope
this poem makes the corners
of your mouth
curl up
because that is
the least I can
do for you,
for all you have
done for me.
And if this poem
does not move
the muscles in your
face at all,
at least I have
the thought.

And maybe
I’ll never know
either way.
But for now,
it is my turn to ask
something of you:
How’s the weather?