Writing.

“It’s more of an outlet than an art form for me,” I tell you, tracing the lines in my notebook.

You smile wide and say, “Write me.”

And I do.

I write your lips and your kind eyes.
I write your hot breath and all the things I’ll never say out loud.
I write your hands, bigger than mine.

But I don’t write your hair and I don’t write your heart; I don’t like to write things that are subject to change.

Do you like music?

“I like music because it’s as though they’ve already written what I’m trying to say, better than I ever could,” I tell you, sketching you in letters.

You are music, beautiful and confusing.
I find myself lost in you.

And quietly, I hope you won’t leave, because I didn’t tell you,
but you’re already written all over my heart.