Every night for the past 5 months I’ve sat up with a pen and a pad trying to find the right words to sum up your loveliness.
Today, the paper is still blank. Ink has yet to leave the pen and I cannot express my thoughts in a way that is worth showing to you.
Writer's block has never been so heavy.
That one night when I walked you to your car,
Just as the moon became full, and the cold from winter’s night removed my jacket and placed it upon your shoulders, you spoke the words, “Thank You.”
Those two words penetrated my body’s flesh and rested underneath my ribcage and haven't left since.
I cherished those words for the rest of the night.
And when God's smile woke me up the next morning, I thought about writing a poem to articulate what I felt.
Since that night, I've toiled over these empty words we as humans have came up with, to encapsulate your existence.
It's nights like this that make me wonder what books God reads for his inspiration?
To think that he could read something, then create a perfect balance between the forest and waterfalls, the desert and sandy beaches in which we inhabit, and provide everything we make daily use of, in only seven days, is incredible!
I wish I could get a glimpse of the Books he was reading right before he began to create your loveliness.
Fore’ it has come to my attention that the reason why I cannot write, is because our tongues have not yet created words and phrases that are worthy of defining such a masterpiece as you.
If I can only pray for one more thing in my life, it would be for God to loan me that Book for just one day.
In that one day I would disengage myself from the rest of the world and spend hours upon hours reading line after line until my vocabulary was strong enough to move a room full of angels.
They say when you Speak in Tongues, you are speaking in a language only understood by God and yourself.
But if I could become literate in that divine language to where I too can read something that would make me want to create another you…
Then I would gladly give up a rib of my own. From that rib, a soul, only rivaled by Angels and my own Mother, would form. It would foster an existence that would have men telling stories about when you smile. They would speak of how only the Sun is more powerful in waking men up from their slumber.
And when you utter even the simplest of words, Time would hold still trying to catch your speech by its ear.
And It too would probably spend months, if not years, trying to articulate the loveliness in which God sealed inside of you.
