It made them look different.

It pains me to write a poem for someone
with the sentiment that is carried
by the romanticist
hoping for a wide eyed stare
of admiration.
The pen should only hit the paper
when there is nothing left
of that moment,
and there is often
something left.

I already find myself
writing 'what should I say?'
as it becomes another part
of something new
and not yet tasted.

Once again,
as you have already learnt
so quickly,
I find so much to say
before reaching
my intention.

There is not much reason,
as I once believed,
for any of us to worry.
It is often little more
than our desire
for finding the answer
at the end of a long arduous road
that stifles are knowledge
of simplicity.

There we both sat,
with no more than
a mutual respect
for the unpleasant situations
we were dealt.
That in itself is a simple
catalyst for ultimate comfort,
one that you
said you would avoid
through a concern
created by complications
that are easily
overruled by
making a simple list
and ticking each item
that offered warmth
It takes no more
than a like mind
and a simple calculation
to establish
a shared happiness.

I have no ultimate point to make,
for there are none.
It is too soon
to let the page
burst with suggestions
and attempts at advice
that I would much rather
show you
through warmth
instead of my usual
analytical approach.

So, I close off,
considering this unfinished,
which is enough
to keep the smile
on my face.