Perhaps I must write about you;
I could write about you;
I should write about you.
For I will soon forget all the times
when you made my heart warm,
and when I made you smile.
Yet, every time I sit down to write about you,
a new crack is created over my fragile heart.
So, I stop.
I stop reminiscing about
the way you felt against my arm;
the way your hazel eyes looked at me;
the way your cheeks turned pink;
the way you were impatient to the entire world,
but the most tolerant with me;
and the way you were kind to me.
I make myself stop
only to realize that I'd already been thinking about you.