You were always better at love poems
Which is truly a tragedy
Because now who will write you the eloquence you deserve?
There is something terribly fitting, and yet sad,
That when I think of how to write for you,
"Your Song" immediately comes to mind.
However, unfortunate for you, it's also true.
If I had anything better to express these wavelengths vibrating in my chest,
I would do it, to show you the depth, volume, mass of my affection
For the way you hair only knows how to grow up,
For your hobbit-like, animated toes,
For hands so perfect, Michelangelo couldn't have done it better,
For the ever-shifting newness of your irises;
But as previously lamented,
I have nothing but words.
Even more unfortunate for you, love
I was always more of a math brain.
Ah! If only there was a formula,
One where x equals the buzzing in my knee caps when you're standing close enough to touch,
And y equals the deepest secret that cummings tried to explain,
Where there's a tree and a sky and bud.
Something I could quantify,
Like how your star sign and mine dance around the earth with one another.
How it all means nothing by itself, just some shots in the dark
But because of love, some of those shots meet their target.
One day I'll write you a love poem,
A real one.
Jul 22, 2017
Jul 22, 2017 at 4:21 AM UTC
You were always better at love poems
Which is truly a tragedy
Because now who will write you the eloquence you deserve?
There is something terribly fitting, and yet sad,
That when I think of how to write for you,
"Your Song" immediately comes to mind.
However, unfortunate for you, it's also true.
If I had anything better to express these wavelengths vibrating in my chest,
I would do it, to show you the depth, volume, mass of my affection
For the way you hair only knows how to grow up,
For your hobbit-like, animated toes,
For hands so perfect, Michelangelo couldn't have done it better,
For the ever-shifting newness of your irises;
But as previously lamented,
I have nothing but words.
Even more unfortunate for you, love
I was always more of a math brain.
Ah! If only there was a formula,
One where x equals the buzzing in my knee caps when you're standing close enough to touch,
And y equals the deepest secret that cummings tried to explain,
Where there's a tree and a sky and bud.
Something I could quantify,
Like how your star sign and mine dance around the earth with one another.
How it all means nothing by itself, just some shots in the dark
But because of love, some of those shots meet their target.
One day I'll write you a love poem,
A real one.
Working and working until I get there. I've only ever been good at telling sad stories, so what happens when I have a joyous one to tell?
