"Why don't you write a book?"
I tell him I am no good at commiting to a character and
My attention span has a knack for waning
I don't tell him he is the exception
He tells me and his lips part as if
To slip another compliment but he reaches for his glass
He thinks I have a way with words
But his tongue could do so much better than mine
I could never write a book without writing about him; how when he stretches his eyes are tight creases like crows' feet,
How he always closes his eyes for so long before and after a kiss
How do I tell him I am really only good at loving?
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