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.