there have been many attempts of me trying to write a poem for you, giving justice to all the men that I have praised and humbled on to jeopardise my life
i even lose sleep writing for some
but my fingers just freeze on the keypad as i push my brain to think of metaphors that symbolise you,
but even thesauruses can’t find me adjectives for your anatomy because
you are real.
you are not made up of
cringey metaphors
nor similes
you are comparable to
none.
you are you.
your fingers that will remain intertwined to mine and will search for it whenever it’s out of reach