you always used to ask me to write you something....

you always used to ask me to write you something,

but how am i supposed to write about you when,

you never used to smoke marlboro's with me when i was alone and depressed - all you used to do was tell me that it would be the death of me, the thing that would eventually kill me if i kept it up. and so, i quit. but you were wrong, because here i am, lighting another one up, alone and depressed. you were the thing that was killing me all along.

and we never slow danced through the kitchen at midnight - me in your sweater, your hands on my waist, my head on your shoulder, you humming sweet nothings in my ear, us slowly twirling to the tune of young love so loud in the air.

and we never went on 2AM drives around the city - on the bad days, one of our only escapes, when it had all been particularly bad and the sadness would hit home the hardest, sinking in until we couldn't breathe, blasting the first song that came on the radio that we knew until our ears are ringing into the night, and we are okay to go back.

- or on those nights filled with hitting those particularly euphoric highs, singing the same song on repeat, music or not, until we finally calm down enough to actually look each other in the eyes and breathe our heartbeats back down.

and you never called me a work of art - a picasso maybe, seemingly messy and out of sorts. or maybe a van gogh , one where you can feel the sadness radiating from it.

and you never compared my eyes to the night's sky?

but i guess that it's all okay.

because i don't know how i am supposed to write about you.

i don't have the words to tell you about how

your eyes look when they shine, the light of a thousand fires from words and ideas unspoken burning bright behind them,

and how your words sound when they run together like poetry, fast and fluid, like liquid gold, like the rain,

and how your smile makes me feel like the world isn't collapsing around me,

and how every song i listen to whispers your name back at me,

and how every time i look at the stars, they always spell out your name.

i want to write words for you as beautiful as you are to me, but i can't.

because the words don't exist that can describe your utterly perfect beauty to me.

and it makes me so sad.

because you are that person.

you are the one that

people write love poems about,

who's eyes shine like a thousand galaxies,

the one with the enchanting smile,

the warm soul lost in this cold world.

you are an actual work of art.

an incomparable, original work of art.

you are an actual work of art,

and i am so, so, very sorry that not many people understand your beauty.

and so,

you always used to ask me to write you something,

but i don't know how i am supposed to write about you.

i'm no poet.

i'm not.

no matter how many times you argue me.

i'm no poet.

but for you?

darling,

i'd burn out all of my stars to write you something as beautiful as you are to me - e