Simple math would make you a Valentine’s Day baby,

But nothing is ever that simple.

It’s never like adding whipped cream to strawberries and calling it dessert,

Niggas would rather bake a cake.

 

Apparently, when you do things in code or take the long way—The long haul is in the cards,

Making cat and mouse, a formality,

a prescreening to an honest hello.

But the thing about a connection is it doesn’t need to be pursued,

it follows you on your walks,

it oozes from the ink of your pens.

 

You see, I have a case full of love songs with no place to sing them,

no band to catch my melody,

my two step has no groove,

my best show jacket has a stain, so I guess

the songs turned into letters and my mantras became your name

 

and all of my unsent letters seem to reach you just fine.

You find your place in my dreams to remind my fingertips of your spine,

then your hands cover my eyes and remind my aloneness of its comfort.

 

So I revisited the tender spaces in my heart that I repaired with a type of love I had to learn on my own,

a love that I’d probably share if you picked up the phone.

 

You could paint me mint green to match your violet hue,

I’d meet you under your favorite moon.

You’d sing my lyrics from songs before they turned into unsent letters,

while our hearts swell and wane,

and swell and wane,

and swell.