Writing poems for her is hard as fuck.

She’s French, like the vanilla I used to put in my coffee,

When I liked it sweet,

And sometimes she is too.

But mostly she’s bold like the way I make it now,

Strong,

And as bitter as I am.

She thinks,

And sometimes when she does, her thoughts are like boa-constrictors around her consciousness.

And when they are, I always wish I knew how to kill snakes.

And I promise I’ll learn one of these days.

And

She can pull on my nerves like a puppeteer plays with the strings of their marionette,

Making my heart dance with every finger that brushes across my skin,

Making me melt when her lips meet my neck.

And

She doesn’t smile easily,

But I think that’s appropriate,

Because it’s worth working for,

I would descend into the mines, I’d get into bare knuckle fights,

I’d spend 20 extra years in the workforce just to see it once more.

Not to be dramatic,

And

That’s not to mention what I’d do to hear her laugh,

Enthusiastic and unadulterated,

Magnetic, and confident,

Like the rest of her.

And I’ve never told anyone I love them,

And I don’t think she knows that,

But I doubt it would surprise her,

Because beyond everything else,

I think she understands me pretty well.