maybe one day you’ll ask me why i never write about you. i’ll say something uncharacteristically clevor like, “because there’s never going to be another person quite like you.”
the truth is i’m not that talented a writer. no amount of cleverly placed adjectives or descriptive prose are going to be able to recreate a smile like yours or the way you laugh or hum when you’re happy. there aren’t enough words to describe the way you idly kiss my head when you’re sitting on the counter top and you ambush me by wrapping your legs around me while i try to cook, like it’s a habit you’ve formed and you can no longer help yourself. as if i was made for no other reason than for your lips to have a place to rest on my bald head. there’s no amount of thought i can translate to a page that will communicate how right it feels when your arms are pulling me tightly to you.
maybe one day i’ll realize how wrong everything i ever felt before was until i met you.
ghost
ghost space echoes 
I wouldn’t say exactly you aren’t a talented writer, but I understand the sense of it where no words, no matter how well written, can translate our thoughts or feelings.