Every day
I am writing you
something new
in this book of mine,
but the poetry
you give to me
is not words
in ink on paper,
it is everything
but these things—
it is your smile,
your laughter
at my bad puns,
the way you ask me
every night,
"Why do you look
so sad?"
It is because
you are so perfect,
so beautiful to me,
and I worry
that all I can give you
is these words
in ink on paper
in return.

TMK 9jan2009