I want to tell you how your smile feels like icecream on a hot day. And how your fingers laced with mine feel better than mittens when it's freezing cold.

But I know you'll laugh it off and tell me I'm weird and just plain corny.

I'll try again and tell you that I, sometimes, want to compare my love for you to galaxies in outer space. Endless and unbelievable.

But you'll just shrug and have that lost look in your eyes again.

So instead I'll say 'I love you' in ways you'll relate to. Ways your traumatized heart can understand. 

I'll put my love in random chocolate boxes at your door step. I'll give my heart to you wrapped in a curly wig. I'll pay for your courses. I'll write rewrite your resumes for every interview. I'll stand at the topmost floor of CBN and sing of my love for you. And I won't stop hurting their ears till they give you a job and you become like the corporate baddies in your Instagram saves.

I'll do anything. Even if it's shrugged off. Even if it's thrown right back in my face. Even if independent girl doesn't want it. 

At long last, when your trauma is healed, I'll bring the galaxies and stars you never believed I could bring. And in the end I'll right cliché poetry and you'll write them back.