I don’t think I’ll ever get tired
Of writing for you.
How can I,
When you are full of such things
Worth writing about?
I always hope you notice,
How cautious I am with the things I say.
I often stumble on my words,
I trip and prance around them
Until I land on ones that are right.
It would be so tragic, you see,
If I were to drag you along a paragraph
That fills you with discomfort.
So I wonder every night,
What sound sentences,
What pastel prose can I haunt you with?
What can I say that would stay with you
Until your eyes welcomed sleep?