If I were
perfectly honest with you,
I mean
one
hundred
percent

you are what I write about
when I write happy poems.
I consider it
the best challenge
ever
to put my gift
of writing
to the test
figuring out words
that could
ever
possibly
begin
to explain
you.

Beautiful.
You are,
God,
so
very
special
to me.
I want to
superglue
myself
right here in this moment,
scrapbooked in time
so I never
have to make that drive home.
(Because you,
dear Taylor,
are male.
And I
am female.
And daddies
tend to worry
'bout that.
Never mind the fact
that when I lay next to you,
all that happens
is
guitar solos
comedy
zombie killing
Chase Coy
tickling
and my poor,
over-abused heart
beating faster than I'd ever expect
hazel
and
snakebites
and
scrawny spider legs
could manage.)