I don’t think I’ll ever get tired

Of writing for you.

How can I,

When you are full of such things

Worth writing about?

I always hope you notice,

How cautious I am with the things I say.

I often stumble on my words,

I trip and prance around them

Until I land on ones that are right.

It would be so tragic, you see,

If I were to drag you along a paragraph

That fills you with discomfort.

So I wonder every night,

What sound sentences,

What pastel prose can I haunt you with?

What can I say that would stay with you

Until your eyes welcomed sleep?