Developing
I can write you no sonnet,
my thoughts don’t lend themselves
to easy rhyming.
Ink-stained hands leave
charcoal-colored smudges
across this blank expanse of paper,
turning words into monochrome butterflies
chained to this pen of mine.
When it all comes down to it,
“I love you” just doesn’t cut it
it never really did.
My feelings for you are too fierce
to put down on paper –
they would shatter cave walls
destroying all art that’s come before,
leaving dust in their path.
And to dust shall we always return.
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