How is it that I should go about this,
the transcription of what you mean to me?
Words on a page are, after all, nothing more than
shapes and curves of an idea the author didn’t care to say aloud.
You are so much more to me than a shape, or a word.
You are so much more to me than this pen will ever know to express.
You’re the end of the world, I suppose,
if such a thing can be considered possible.
There is no conceivable life after you.
What would be the point?
You paint everything I am with vivid splashes of colour and brilliance.
You line my everything with something and bring
an unexpected smile upon my face.
I do love how you can always manage to do that.
The sight of your shoulders in the morning…
bearing the weight of your restless night before.
To sink within your arms and rest is heaven.
I will never tell you so, for I cannot think how to utter such things.
I am ashamed to feel this way
but I am not ashamed to feel this.
I am not ashamed to lie with you and whisper,
the things I say mere shards and fragments of what I feel.
I expect, most times, you see through my vague approach
and know what it is I mean to say, and understand
why I cannot say it.
There is love within my chest for you.
I suspect it has been there long before I first met you,
long before I first woke to the sight of you and
the warmth of your fingertips.
If the brilliance on your behalf fades,
then I might keep these words to remind me
of what once burned within.
And if it doesn’t fade, as I hope it might not,
I may show them to you one day,
and hope you see within them what I’d like to say aloud.
This pen is artificial in its attempt to make real my expression,
but the sentiment is true enough.
What I wished to prove by this was
my unacknowledged love.
