I'm pretty sure Eyes glaring At the surface of my soul Isn't supposed to feel Any less like a stabbing to the heart. But it does. You have cupped My burdens In both of your hands And sprinkled them over The driest corners of my mind, Watered them, And let them grow Slowly Into something lovely.
I'm pretty sure That every hiccup of an 'I miss you' Isn't supposed to Cause my blood To blush warm. But it does. You toy with words In the best way Making sure each syllable Is coated in Silky persuasion And I try, Believe me, I do, To let them sink Into this heart, You've called beautiful Far too many times.
I'm pretty sure Your lips have quivered And tired of Grinning encouragements And whispering warmth And uttering 'I love you's But they haven't. For this, I am pleased. And this fluttering thing Residing in my chest Can't find a way out To tell you, To thank you.