Your soft hair gleams in the light,
a morning selfie that graces my feed.
The more I gaze into your deep eyes,
the longer I feel as if could fall into them, longingly wishing to tell you,
how much I adore you.
That I, am in awe of your unconcious beauty,
perplexed by your layered originality.
Like a poet with a new novel, I so desperately desire to read farther into you,
yet be gentle as if I am handling a hundred
year old book.

But I, I am no one.
Not a complete, not a singular.
I am merely stiched from pieces of others,
a poor art collage of a human.
Hopelessly, I cannot possibly aim to be even half of what you are,
or that,
which you surely will become.

To whom it may concern;
As I watch you from afar,
It seems your mental living conditions have become poor.

While the paint on your house seems new,
the garden, gently cared for
and your front porch, freshly swept
all of the rooms in your house are a mess.

The foyer,
which once invited large storms of crowds
and your master suite;
the most lavish room in the entire house
are covered in trash, half-empty bottles,
and what i can only surmise
as a deep depression in the walls and floor

But your attic, whereby
you store your most valuable treasures
thought,
wisdom
beauty
appears to have grown dark
and now neither dark basement nor top floor
can be told apart

so dear,
i write you this, to speak of my qualifications
my abilities, as a household repairman
though i may not hold any formal degree,
please,
see my references,
as quite soon, i would love to get to work
and teach you
to rebuild your home