Lamentationstation

Why can’t I write for him?
He’s the sparkle in my eye, the tingle in my guts, and the tickle in my nuts.
He’s the icing on my cake, good for goodness sake, the smile I just can’t fake.
He makes my blue sky, my pink rosy, and my yellow sunshine.
Yet I can’t write for him, like I can write for others.
He is the pickle in my pants, the twinkle in my toes, the glowy glow that shows.
He’s the ultimate expression, an essential digression, a valuable lesson.
He’s the one, yet I can’t write for him.
The stiletto on my shoe penetrates the lawn and sinks me,
And he laughs at me as I tumble into the muddy grass.
He is the giggle in my downfall,
The one who pulls me to my feet, grubby knees and messy hair,
He’s the dam in my damnation, the train in my station, the lame in my lamentation.
He’s the pun in my prudentry, the valiant who saves me, the other part of me.

He has the gall to gallivant, the guts to get me; he doesn’t take prisoners, but always releases me.
And I can write for him.