I want to write a poem for you.
Because I like your hats.
And I like your scarves.
And I admire how your mind works.
Breaking apart everything with your idiot savant sense of indiscretion.
There’s nothing you won’t accomplish after the rattle in your right wheel is looked after.
I’m saving up whatever money I have so I can buy a ticket to your Magical Mystery Tour.
I am so happy I have written this poem.
And there’s no reason other than hanging out with you makes me feel alive.
And I admire your taste in literature, bourbon and Thai food.
And I like your cockeyed optimism on the impending doom and its impending failure.