I love poetry, so maybe that's why I love you.
Every line that makes you up is pure
beauty in its rawest form.
Reading you is magical, but you are more than magical; you're real.
I touch your pages and I try my best to let the ink of your soul bleed into me, staining me with the essence of your love.
Your consonants crease me like an old worn out books pages.
Your vowels are voluptuous, and your syllables cause me to bite my tongue.
You're my most favorite piece of all time.
Would you allow my arms to be the frame worthy enough to hold the masterpiece that is you?
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