I wrote you a poem.

I could talk about my most recent random adventures found after busting out of the suburbs, but I'd rather tell you that I wrote you a poem last night.

It was the best piece of literature I've ever written. The poem itself was a lyrical painting; the words placed on the paper almost of their own accord, with me not realizing they were even there until I could smell the wet scent of them drying.

Mmm, the scent still lingers even now in my memory; slightly heady, but really, only slightly . It reminds me of the Spring and walking down back lanes lined with lilac hedges and how you can't smell them at first, but you suddenly find that all your senses are overwhelmed and taken hostage by the unforgiving lilacs. You find that you aren't sure if you are still smelling the lilacs or if you've started to taste them and feel them seeping into your pores as well.

That was my poem I wrote for you.

A lyrical painting! The words flowed so seamlessly, it was as if they had always existed just as they were found on that page. As if seeing them anywhere else would find the words somehow out of place.

The poem itself was, of course, subtly sensual. They always are. Merely reading it was like having only the shadow of your lover's finger tracing outlines of your spine and shoulder blades and making invisible swirls on all the tender expanses of your flesh.

Each time you read the poem it finds new ways to invade and bring back to life all those little lost memories of old loves. Mmm... Like the look on his face as he turned down the lights that night and crawled across the country of your bed in eager anticipation and no mercy. no mercy at all.

I could tell you about my adventures of late, but I'd rather tell you that I wrote you a poem last night. The most beautiful poem I've ever written.

The only problem is, I never really wrote it down. It grew and blossomed and matured in my brain. last night. it came to me; chose me if you will. it's not gone, but it's not here anymore. I only have these little remnants of it. These bittersweet, sexy and nostalgic remnants are all I have left to share.

Perhaps it will come back to me again, but I don't think it can ever be written down. The most perfect beauty of it cannot be captured in the confines of a few sets of stanzas, in human words... in an anatomical alphabet.

But that's how I think. In poetry.