you

I'm not very good 
at a lot of things.

I cannot paint
you pictures
because the beautiful
things in my head
cannot be translated.

Nor can I sing to you,
as my voice has an 
uncanny habit
of falling flat.

Nor can I play for you
as my fingers fumble
when my thoughts
cross over to how
you look, watching me.

But I can brush the
knots out of your hair
and work the knots 
out of your back
when your day
has become too
much to bear.

I'm not good at much,
but I will be good to you.