I wanna write about your everything.
I wanna write about your eyes, and the way they look at me.
I wanna write about your smile, and the way I melt in the warmth of its radiance.
I wanna write about your freckles and how even though they are only ten and only a peripheral,  negligible  shade
darker than your skin they make my total of
things I think are beautiful about you ten more
than the end of infinity.


But you see, my Dear,


I do not want to write about the fact that
my ideas are a spectrum running from every color to white in comparison
to your blind opinion and to me your beliefs are nothing but entertaining myths I would tell to my children at night.
I do not want to write about your glare, and the way that I freeze in its presence.
I do not want to write about your leer, and the way you look at me.
I do not want to write about your anything.