Love You Like a Poem I Never Wrote

They say that people who write poems are a lost breed of die hard romantics,
who would lyrically put their heart on the line.

I have been sitting here for the past hour, staring at an empty page that seems to stare back at me.

All I have managed to write is “To me, you look like a beautiful flower“

Even that feels like a lie I have not earned, because I cannot pick a flower.

A rose would be too obvious.
A tulip would feel too perfect.
A lily too delicate.

Flowers feel like decisions and I do not trust myself with that kind of certainty.

Maybe that is the problem.
Poets are supposed to be certain, to take something vast as a feeling and turn it into something small as a word and still have it say everything.

How am I supposed to do that when I am stuck between what I feel and what I can say?

You are not just one thing.
You are the hesitation before I speak,
the quiet after you smile,
the way my thoughts fly like dandelion when you enter them.

And none of that sounds like a flower.

So the page stays mostly empty.