I’ve heard people say,
“You should date a writer,
they’ll immortalise you in their words;
you’ll live forever in their stories.”
But as much as I want the world to know
of the times you make my heart fly,
and my skin shiver from tickles,
and how your scent is more enticing than any perfume
I can’t find the words to do us justice.
No sentence comes clearly to mind
to endorse the tenderness
when our legs are wrapped like ivy vine.
I fear there’s nothing I can say
that won’t sounds too cliché
to describe the warmth in my soul that radiates
when your eyes dilate when you look into mine.
I can’t apologise enough that I can’t
let you live forever in my words
because I know you’re afraid of death;
and if it were with you, I’d want to be immortal too.
But there’s no metaphor
or analogy for butterflies
that hasn’t been written
a thousand times.
So I write this apology
with the dust in my bones
and hope someone notices
the love in this poem.