It's said that the human eye stops growing between the ages of seven and eight
but you're seventeen now, and I no longer trust opticians
your eyes couldn't possibly be done growing, because you don't know how beautiful you are yet
maybe your ears aren't done growing either, because the words I speak into them are the exact same words that you need to believe
you don't believe me but you should
or rather, you don't believe me- yet.
and don't you think that maybe my eyes are disillusioned
I see so well that I even see you in my dreams  
My mind is so full of your image that pictures and thoughts of you bring a wave of runoff sentences and poetic whispers
Let me give you an example.
beautiful girl sitting by the sea
playing an out-of-tune gibson to a crooked melody
goosebump skin delivered by a cold breeze
she trusts where her hands go since she can't see
trust where my hands go
I'll trace your lips so sweet
I'll love you in a dried-up lakebed,
or under naked autumn trees
show me your swollen eyes
show me bloodstained alibis
show me flesh adorned with dull pink lines
show me yourself, all of you
you don't need to be afraid
because you know I'll never hurt you
I'll only kiss you better
And I can't give you the world
But I can give you eight letters
That show you what you mean to me: everything.