Write What's Left

"Write from the heart,"
I say to myself,
"and let her know how you feel organically,
naturally, beautifully and
straightforwardly and right from the heart."

But I can never convey the depths of joy
she brings to me with every smile
she coyly returns to me,
like a tennis volley
that goes to and fro.

Or how the thought of her
brightens my day,
where I can watch only ten minutes
of "The Price is Right"
and feel the anguish of every contestant
as well as their euphoria.
Ten minutes is all I need to know
that she amplifies every emotion
I feel or see felt.

Or even when I'm sick,
throwing up,
and my body punishes me
beyond what I can say is my comfort zone,
her presence uplifts me,
and my spirits give me
the necessary vigor to smile for her.
The most difficult part of having her heart
around mine at the start of every morning
is deciding which I like more:
her kiss on my cheek or mine on hers.

One means she cares,
and I wouldn't dare say there is a feeling
fairer than the bare, raw happiness I get with her lips
on the side of my jaw.
For all I know, I saw this coming from a mile away
and I let it play out,
I let the plane land on the runway of my cheek.
But the other, my lips on her cheek,
conjures a smile so pretty and meek,
and for a moment I peek into heaven's mystique,
the joy of an angel I see.
I seek nothing beyond than to pepper the world
with more smiles like hers.
If I can conjure a verse (like I conjure her smiles)
to tell her I would,
but it might be worse than the terse lines
I've dared to rehearse right now.
I'm ready to burst with unworthiness.

I cannot convey how I simultaneously miss
the smell of her
and the impression she leaves on my sheets,
her beet-red cheeks and the beat of her feet
upon my legs, a-tappin' away at some
song I play.
"Stay," I say, but she smiles my way again.
"Nay," says she, and so we lay we
for only a few more minutes.

I count time subconsciously
so I can save room in my conscious mind
for her.

And if I can barely pen this,
then how can I convey her leaving
promptly sends my body to pain again?
If I can barely say this aloud,
how can I be allowed to say proudly
that without her I'm lousy?
If I can barely read this myself,
how can she read and then see
what she means to me?
Despite my easy rhyme schemes
I swear in my dreams
there is none fairer than she.

"Write from the heart,"
I say to myself.
Words fall short,
so I'll give it a rest.
Perhaps feelings are best.