Thresheld

Not Enough

There aren't enough hours in the day- not a week, month, or year for that matter,
for me to write a love poem that would get you to pick up the phone, but I don't want to anyways.
I want to be your canvas, every last sinew down to my deepest tissue that no ink could ever get to.
I will be that lovely liquid energy that fills your mold perfectly, silently in what ever way you want me, for as long as you will have me, I will gladly give you everything, down to my thesaurus of adverbs, because the taste on my tongue, sadly isn't you, it is blank forlornly waiting for you to eagerly fill it with that special part of you that perfectly makes up for every imperfection that you've coiled around your heart taut on either side by a gambit of emotions that are pulling you away from your most expressive means of manipulating my masterpiece in progress by engraving my canvas with your decisive presence.

In other words I'm trying to tell you my words are wasted even in explination of the power of persuasion I lack, as emphatic as they seem these words wound just as easily. To put it simply I am an open book for you to foot note with your own ideas and poetry, not literally, really anyway you want without even knowing it, because there aren't enough hours in the day- not in a week, month, or year for that matter,
for me to lose inspiration in your presence, or excitement when you light up my phone.