I wish I could write poetry about you.

About your eyes, your smile, your voice, your laugh, your smell, your warm arm around my shoulders, hand entwined with mine, days alone on park benches when nobody else existed. I want to write about all of it.

But I don't. I can't. How can you be such an oxymoron. So kind. And warm and soft and beautiful. So perfect. And yet I don't want you.

Beggers can't be choosers, I beg myself to chose you but sometimes I feel that isn't my decision. I feel I can not write your poems. You see, they don't even rhyme.

I'm sure you can write poetry about me. That may be the worst part. The lines of poetry you spew on will, every word spoken with warm eyes locked with mine, every good morning text sent with messy hair and dirty t-shirts.

You write the next chapter of our lives like a stanza, rhyme our time together with the ease and skill of an author. Why can't I be the protagonist? Why must I always play the reluctant hero. Today, the reluctant villain.

I'm sorry. I wish I could be better for you. I can't even write you back, how could I expect such poetry. You deserve poetry. You deserve Robert Frost and William Shakespear. You deserve love and happiness and joy and beauty.

You deserve a poet, but I fear she isn't me.