"... But I'm not good at writing," you added as you looked down to your shoes after saying I love you.
Baby, you don't have to be.
I don't care if you find it hard to look for rhyming words, or if thinking about similes and metaphors make you puke, or if you just simply suck as a poet. I don't care if you can't send me a comprehensive and tear-jerking love letter of what your heart wants to say. I don't care at all.
It's okay if you can't write about how many times I make you smile. You would probably lose count if you can.
It's okay if you can't write about my enthusiastic appetite and my contagious laugh.
It's okay if you can't write about how my body moves everytime my favorite music plays or how I always sing them out of tune.
It's okay if you can't write about goodbye's because they only mean good night.
It's okay if you can't write about what makes me glad just as long as you won't make me sad.
It's okay if you can't write about all the little things — my eyes, my smile, my curves, my kiss, and my warm embrace.
It's okay if you can't write about me— your utopia and dystopia, your heaven and hell, your highest and deepest, your core and crust, your everything. It's okay because what matters is the fact that you're still here rejoicing with my triumphs and fighting with me against my demons.
And if you think that writing would make me believe that I'm beautiful even when I look like shit after crying over a movie, darling, I already believed you when your eyes did all the talking.
You don't have to be a poet when you love one. You don't have to be my Michael Faudet just because you love me— your Lang Leav.
But if you really want to try and write about all of these,
then baby,
you already have me in the process of trying.
— Myka Obinque