I used to try and write you into words. I would try and assemble your 206 bones into the letters of a poem with your teeth as commas and your freckles as periods. I would try and capture your laughter and confine it to the margins on the page but no hyperbole, no metaphor would express it right. I realized that you were already a poem being written by life itself and I could only be the reader who stays up all night, devouring your words.
(Source: pigmenting, via samanthaababyx3)