Love,

I won’t compose prose every morning you open your eyes next to me (I won’t compare you to a summer’s day).
I won’t kiss the tears from your cheeks whenever you cry.
I won’t remember every appointment.
I won’t keep the sheen on my armour.
I won’t know what to say sometimes.
I won’t get your order right.
I’ll be late.
I’ll fuck-up.

But I’ll write something for you when you least expect it (in summer or winter).
But I’ll hold you as tight as I can whenever I can.
But I’ll burst through the door as soon as I remember.
But I’ll polish it until it shines again.
But I’ll say something anyway.
But I’ll go back and make it right.
But I’ll get there.
But I’ll try not to.