I want to write about you, but I can't find the right words to form how I want to describe the slump of your shoulders when you walk sometimes, or the little curves of your love handles that shape out your sides, how you look so serious with your black framed glasses but also like someone I could waste a Sunday afternoon with. I like the way your skin looks, soft and perfectly shaded, the way your fingers rub the back of your head gets me heated in all the right places. It gets hard for me to not stare, I don't want to set my hopes up, but when the clock strikes a certain hour you tend to be all I can think of. I don't even know your name, that's a lie I do, but I know the color of your eyes and how they set my heart aflame. Every life I've ever put in to words has never come to a fruition, my emotions left out on the curb, same roads I always travel have never done me any good, but I can't ever seem to stop despite warning signs that I should. I described you once as comfortable and that is what you are, sitting over there, a few steps few too far.