I could write a whole book about you, but what’s the point?
I could write about your childish smile that shows your crooked teeth, the same smile that could light up my dark days,
I could write about your dorky glasses that would often slip down your nose when you’re having too much fun,
or even about your silly dance moves when you’re already all giddy and drunk;
but what’s the point in that when you’re not even mine to begin with?
I could write a whole book about how I’d like you to hold me, but what’s the point?
I could write about how you’re just the perfect height for me to rest my head comfortably on your collarbone if we were to hug,
I could write about how soft your shaggy, messy hair would be if I run my fingers through them,
or I could write about how lovely it would feel when you’re pressed up against me if we were to cuddle on my lonely, big bed;
but what’s the point in that when you already have someone else to do all that with, and that person is not me?
I could write a whole book about you;
about that brilliant brain of yours that keeps reproducing the best ideas, the best thoughts,
about your kindness that you’re so willing to provide for everyone,
about every traits that you own—yes, that’s just how much I adore you—or even about how you’re oh-so-clueless about how I feel about you,
because after all, I’m just a nobody to you.