i can tell you every detail that composes him,
as if he were a book that I knew from start to finish.
the pages my fingers love to skim,
while i attempted to make them stick like an image.
i can tell you what he is and what he's not;
he's love and not lust.
when pen meets paper he's my first thought,
so many feelings needed to be written that i might combust.
i can tell you everything and more,
but I want to keep the beauty all to myself.
he's a love that anyone would would be blessed to adore,
but there's only one copy of my favorite book on the shelf.