did you know that speaking your name
feels a lot like exhaling a breath?
because it does, and i don't think
i'm being perfectly clear right now
since i'm trying to not make this
into a love poem when it's not but
the point is: it's always a love poem with you
and i shouldn't even be fucking trying. so.
you take my breath away is what i meant.
is what i always mean when i look at you.
when god said “let there be light”,
he was thinking of you
and you opened your eyes
and the big bang exploded life into motion
and thousands of years later
you're what brought the earth back together
after the asteroid that killed all the dinosaurs.
you're what thawed the ice age
and made continents out of the pangaea
and kick-started the evolution of man—
yikes, okay, i was trying to make a point
but i made it pretty fucking intense so
what i'm saying is
you're one hell of a phenomenon.
i know you're only human
but don't poets always say that
we're all made from the same stuff as stardust?
well, scientific basis aside, i believe them because of you.
heaven must've cried itself sick from the loss of you.
the stars are crying now out of jealousy
because they'll never burn as fucking bright as you do
and the angels can't wait to take you back but like.
they're going to have to wait their turn
because i'm sure the world can't get enough of you.
at first i wanted to giftwrap the universe
and deliver it to you at midnight
so you could get a taste of what i feel
when every damn sunlight decides to shine on you—
but, like everyone else we know, i'm really fucking broke.
and you're almost certainly priceless anyway
what with how you smile like some lost paradise so. i mean.
maybe it's the thought that counts and really,
if it's the thought that counts,
then you're filthy stinking rich
because not to be nsfw and all that crap
but i think of you everyday. i mean
i would probably regret saying that, but
it won't be as much as i regret that
i'm a lazyass fucking poet
instead of some world renowned painter
so i could make you into art
that is more than words
and give you galaxies upon galaxies
just like you deserve. you know
i don't even trust myself to write you,
i always think whatever i say isn't enough.
that's why this poem is so goddamn long—
even the sun can’t compare to you.
you're more than these words, you're a song
and we all know i'm pretty goddamn tone deaf.
but i'd dance to you with my two left feet
and i'd sing along when you're on the radio.
a cute boy might even play you over and over
until everyone's had about damn enough.
and it won't even matter, because you'd still be
one of the best damn love songs anyone's ever heard.
all this talk about love must make you uncomfortable
so to get it out of the way: feelings are gross and you
make me want to puke (in the best possible way).
now make no mistake: this might be a love poem,
but this isn't some shitty guilt trip poem
to try to make you like me back. right. like,
i do want to give you my wishbone heart
so when you laugh you'd make your dreams come true
but i know it's not what you want.
and i'm sorry i had to say it
(i think you needed to hear it),
it just sounded so good on this poem
which i've been trying to write for months now.
(you make my job really fucking hard.)
i can never wrap my mind around you but
i swear i'm not hoping for a miracle
since i pretty much already met you
and that’s miracle enough to last lifetimes.
i'm still sorry i had to say it though.
i'm even more sorry that i mean it
when i say you’re fucking beautiful.
goddamn do i mean it and
goddamn did i wanna say it so badly.
i'm sorry you had to read my shitty analogies
just so i could say i'm glad you exist.
no, scratch that— i'm not just glad,
like i’m glad when it’s Saturday or
when schooldays get suspended. i mean:
i'm pretty fucking blessed you exist
the same time i do and i got to witness
the world’s undoing firsthand. i mean:
you light up the room like a sunrise
and you could silence mankind with a laugh.
and not to be blasphemous, but i mean
you make all the preachers' psalms come true:
there is a world without end amen, and it's you.
His name is Sam. And he likes playing a single song over and over and over and over until everyone can't take it anymore. I'd like to listen to each of his new obsession if he'd let me.