My Libretto

She’s lyrical
I’m not exactly sure what I mean by that
Maybe it’s that she reminds me of all the good songs I should be able to write
and all the great poetry that there’s no reason I shouldn’t be writing
Her essence is just beyond my ability to capture it …
to reveal her simple and awe inspiring truth
and convey it to someone else
Her whole world happens below my belly button
that doesn’t really roll off the tongue,
and it sounds a little … well a little like a statement I shouldn’t make in public
There’s always the dancing
I show that off in public all the time
Just provide music and step back
It’s the best … but, come to think of it, it may not be dancing
Dancing isn’t an accurate or comprehensive enough label
And spelling words wrong doesn’t perfectly convey the poetry of her discourse
It’s in my headdd, but it won’t come upppp or outdd
Ham
That’s about as clear as if I was to describe her hair
A true tangle fest
Kind of like these thoughts,
And kind of like when she sits on me,
while reading a book,
as I lie on the floor studying the poetry of her movement,
and the artistic expression of,
skinny little fingers,
miniature elbows,
an impossibly studious face
a curly mess of hair
and all the other lines of my little libretto
If only I could hum it in crowds