I’m sorry that all of my words roll off my tongue in metaphors and my sentences string themselves together like needles and thread but I read too much poetry and over time, I have picked up the tiny habits. I’m sorry that I never stop talking until my letters have formed works of art and I’ve finished describing my thoughts and emotions in a way that nobody understands, but somehow they understand anyway. I’m sorry that it takes so long to get things done when I’m around because I spend half my time staring into the distance, wondering what the clouds would taste like, and how I would put that taste on paper, and you spend all your time snapping your fingers in front of my face as though that will scare the poetry out of my mind to slip onto the street and seep through the gutters where nobody will ever find it. My apologies could go on for miles but I don’t have the space of time to tell you all of them, and for that, I am sorry, too, but sorry will never change the fact that I have let the poetry creep down my throat and claw itself into my bones, take apart my every being and replace my heart with words I have no trouble saying but you have trouble listening to. I know that eventually, you will grow tired of it, but until then, I will hand you love letters when you least expect it and write your name into my lungs so that even when I cannot breathe, I will remember the sound of your voice. I will surprise you with afternoon picnics and concert tickets and movie nights and even though while you are rubbing your thumb on the back of my hand I am writing a poem in my mind about the feel of it, I still have not managed to write a poem that describes you perfectly enough because you are not merely something that can be put into words, and no poetry will ever be worthy of you. My love for you is a sensation that only I will ever get the pleasure of having because although my mind is filled with beautiful words, none of them will ever be beautiful enough for you.