By Twelve Tulips
I haven’t told my pillows about you.
Instead, I pick up my pen, not to draw, but to write on paper,
because writing is simply the language of the unrequited,
who wishes nothing more than to be seen and heard.
So, every summer night, I jot down each intimate detail about you:
the way your hand fit the lock of your raven hair,
the way your eyes crinkle like a shy sunrise,
the way your smile suits your tan complexion,
the way your dimple runs deep into your flesh,
the way your scent lingers longer in memory,
and the way your voice resonates for eternity
— you are in every manner, a beauty in disguise, and as long as I live, my pen is here, to bring it to light.
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