I can’t write you a love poem, darling.

You see, these hands were made to write love in your smile.

I can’t write you a love poem, dear,

because I’m more of a painter. Be my sketchbook and I’ll

paint your eyes into every empty space of your soul you ever thought was dull about yourself

I’ll paint you a mirror so you can see for yourself that every part of you deserves to be framed and hung in a museum

Because when I envision you I fall in love with a day dream

Because when I day dream I fall in love with a vision that one day I’ll make you realize you’re the rainbow on a color palette and there’s no need to use a brush because the loveliest thing pain has ever created by accident was your smile.

I can’t write you a love poem, darling.

Not one as perfect as your breathing.

I can’t write you a love poem, dear

because when you take in air I’m jealous.

And all I want to do is spend my days giving all my breath to you, my pinwheel; and in my destruction, so long as it gives you purpose I will find the strength to be your last chance.

I can’t write a love poem, darling.

What if I ruin it?