I'm not 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
had become to much to
bear


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