another one of those sentimental things:

I wish to write you a poem. A sonnet, maybe. With fourteen lines of sweeping verse; fourteen lines of soaring magnificence and elaborate structure. I will attempt to condense a lifetime of feelings into the rigid frame of a single poem. I will sing the song of your beauty; I will stress the chorus of your smile and paint the portrait of your divinity. And I will use the softest, the most delicate and deliberate words. Or perhaps I will simply write your name and stare at it awhile. I want to, I must write you a poem.

I am writing you a poem. There are metaphors of you everywhere I look. Your image is seared into my brain, and it is as though every pen stroke is a touch of my finger against your skin. Words float around my head, each one begging to be used to immortalize you, and each one less worthy than the last. Should I sing of beauty, or should I write of love? Shall I liken you to roses, or rubies, or compare you to stars? And these simple words, will they ever suffice? I am writing you a poem, though I may as well sit and dream another dream of you.

I have written you a poem. I have failed miserably in my attempts to write about your beauty. And then I tried to talk aboutĀ  my love for you, and the tower that I had constructed with my words came crashing to the ground. So I wrote of you instead. Of the small things that make you divine. The way you laugh, the mole on your cheek, that single tendril of hair that is always bobbing between your eyes.The rest of the poem came together splendidly after that. I have written you a poem. It is not flowery, it does not hail your beauty, and it says nothing about love. But it is earnest, and as heartfelt a devotion as can be put to words.

I wrote you a poem. A sonnet. The rarest kind there is. You read it in under a minute. Your smile was fixed, your eyes unmoved and unimpressed. So you folded the poem, my gift to you, and stuffed it in your pocket, never to be touched again; only to be remembered after being retrieved from a pair of washed jeans. I wrote you a poem, a testament of my affection, and you, my love, demanded flowers instead.

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