Ruins of Renaissance

I want to call you a flower,
but I do not want to belittle your brilliance
by cliché.
I also want to call you brilliant,
but the connotations are too wide ranging.
Do you shine?
Perhaps your thoughts glimmer,
your insights cast prismatic shadows,
or you could infer that I am commenting
on your post workout sheen…
that is not what I would mean. 

I want to say you are mine,
but that would limit you to a dimension of existence 
relative to me,
I do not want that,
you are not that. 

I want to note your beauty,
but I do not want to imply that
is all you are.
I also want to say you are brilliant
but we’ve already noted
the flaws in that,
so I want to say you’re a genius
but hyperbole is too easily overlooked.
I want to say, out loud,
the wonderful things about you,
but you are the wonderful things,
not the words that would dull them,
dull you.

So, 
I want to sit quietly next to you.
I want to watch you,
to know your half smile,
your blink in bright light,
your yawn of boredom,
or exhaustion,
your flutter of lashes
as eyes demand sleep. 
I want to exalt you 
by being with you
as you 
are you.