As I sit at my writing table, head in my hands,
I seek to demystify these mystifying thoughts of you,
I sought to unravel these feelings of longing,
That has me completely wrapped, and pining,
Why does it drive me to show you my favorite places?
And claim your lips with kisses, so intense,
They carry the stirrings I feel,
And sear them into your being,
I'd bare my soul for you, I'd kill a man or two,
These notions leave me perplexed,
Like I would do them yet not under duress,
Is this love, or merely the beginings of it?
Are these the signs, that your pieces would complete mine?
The puzzle that I am, leave even gods befuddled,
And mortals stupefied, like a judge confounded,
Like these lines that barely tell of the fondness,
That sits deep within me, yet surges forth,
When I mention your name, or look at your pictures,
You must forgive me, mademoiselle,
For saying too little, and speaking not so often,
You must never begrudge me this silence,
Never think I know no penance, for saying less,
Yet feeling more, subtly wishing, I could,
Properly convey these thoughts,
And not have them lost in translation,
Buried under the nuances that have become my signature,
These blotches of stains, of misinterpreted thoughts,
Yet instilled, not with misconstrued notions,
That I may love you,
For this is beyond love, this is a homecoming,
Of spliced souls, finally been put back together,
As our fates did intertwine.

© The boy who raged, 1683.


For the record, I have no intent to tell her that I feel this way... Not until I'm sure about what this is... Romantic love, or Love of the insane amount of compatibility and ease she represents...