Lovesick Nothings

How can anything I write possibly describe you?

I never tried to be a poet until I met you
Really, I’m still not
More often, I stumble through my words, treading across a haze of lovesick nothings in an endless attempt to make any sense
One day you asked me something
While I laid against you, breathing into your neck, your hands tracing sweet circles across my skin
And all I could whisper in response was a murmured admittance of my lack of words
Oh, I wish I could melt into the stupor of sonnets
and let lovely words of prose dance across my lips
But, and maybe this is too cliche, but you take away my breath
And steal any semblance of thought from my mind.
The dizzying affairs of love have no place writing novels
When ink won’t stain as well as the thump, thump of your heartbeat when I lay my head against you.

Author's Note

I suppose cliches exist for a reason

Reviews

[Gee]

We all eventually find our "driver", that thing which makes us reach for the pen, yours is obvious love for your boy, mine, well mine is grief, death, sadness :))
Another good write