There isn’t a lot more I have to give to you,
than this string of carefully put together words.
There’s an awkward, shy smile,
that beams foolishly on your face.
A bunch of ridiculously cheesy lines that you never seem to laugh at.
There are my hands though, and some incredibly skilled fingers,
but unfit for clean puns, if you know what I mean.
I can’t buy you a swanky car, nor fly you off to exotic holidays.
Heck, I can’t even play you a song on the guitar,
no song I can sing to forget the weariness of the world.
No acrobatic feat that can make your heart leap on awe.
I’m not even that tall hero with six-pack abs,
that you lie down on or fantasize all day.
But you understand me, my love.
For in these words you’ll find little traces of magic.
You’ll see them in the quiet stories of our walks on the beach.
With them, you can listen to my laughter,
look deep into my sunken eyes and tell me that I need to sleep more often.
With these words, you can travel with me to places we cannot go today,
real or imaginary.
I write, like you dance or paint, perhaps.
You do so because it comes to you, without the expectation of applause.
I write, because words tumble out.
I will try to give you everything in this world, maybe even more.
But at nights, when we are far, take these words from me.
I may think they aren’t enough, but they make you smile;
And maybe, that is enough.