My heart houses a book of endless tome,
a hundred pages, bound by fates hand,
yet, in this volume vast, deep as the sea's hue, where many had roamed,
your name alone fills this cherished land.
The ocean is a trove of dimes,
but what of it when yours is a fishbowl.

In the margins, your laughter dances like sunlight on a quiet stream,
Each wind whisper's tales of affections told
and though the words are many, true and deep,
this inks longing pen does only spare,
it's pages for thee, love, in dreams to keep,
no space remains for any other trace.

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