no. i'm sorry, i just can't do it. maybe i count the ways i love you on a midsummer night, and maybe i fall asleep ready to dream about your face, your hands, your laugh. but i'm not going to lie about it. your hair isn't rays of gold, dripping through the ambrosial mixing bowl. it's a dull, crosshatched roof in a developing country. it's faded by the sun. it's the polluted sand on the beach. it's discolored. it's full of weeping children and broken bottles that bite when i run my hand over your skull.
you're too thin. you should be bigger than me. that's just how it works in those sorts of poems. the girl is a waif and the boy is made up of muscles (although they don't crowd out his brain). but you're not. you're dry spaghetti arms and i'm meat sauce legs, and that alone makes it so that we can't star in this story.
you're not a martyr, no matter how much i wish you were. you're not crying at night, you're not a tortured soul. you can't share my love for words, you don't shred up journals with a combination of ink and tears. your life just sucks. but so does mine. we deal with it, our separate ways. yours is just more practical than mine.
you're not romeo, and i'm certainly not your juliet. you would never die for me - because of me. you wouldn't get in a fight. you're not a hero. you're a coward. you sit at home and play video games, cursing when your character dies. but you've never thought about what would happen if you did. do you know that i would cry?
you're not an angel. you're just not. your face is not cherubic, and you don't glow with an inner light. there's no halo around your face. your song doesn't make me praise jesus hallelujah. you don't have wings.
you're the only one who thinks you're a stud. i absolutely know you aren't. but it doesn't matter what i know, it matters what i feel. no, your eyes are not diamond blue pools of love and desire. but they are faded blue jeans that i want to wear on the weekends when i scream at the horror movie you insisted on watching. your hands are not veined in silver and holding up the weights of the world. but they are the ark that noah built, and he set the people who deserved it free.
i know you're just a human. i know you're not a character in a book, i know you're not beautiful images splattered across the page. no one crafted you in particular. you're not an angel. but i still believe you when you tell me you can fly.