I want to write you something.

I can’t write about you.

To put you into words would diminish you.

You were never meant to be a sentence,

No more than lines on a page.

Not even a book,

But a library.

And still that isn’t enough.

A library has shelves, order, an end.

You don’t end.

I would need every word ever written,

And then the ones we haven’t made yet,

The ones no language has built room for.

I want to write you something.

I’m still trying.