It’s you.
You’re just so so good,
even when you don’t think that could be true.
Perhaps that’s when,
most of all.

How blinded to your own light you can be,
the intrinsic nature of your existence seems so obvious
But it’s hard to see out when you’re in it.

You’re poetry,
plain and simple,
the way the words sift themselves
into something more than their simplest meaning
In that space on your tongue
where your heart and mind collide.

You invite metaphor,
because simile isn’t enough
Nothing is quite like you.