December 9
I’d like to steal words from Byron, Lermontov, Wordsworth, Longfellow,
Because I’m certain they’ve written how I feel about you.
But they couldn’t have.
No one has ever captured how I feel today.
No woman has ever loved a man before.
I’m certain of it.
And if they had, they couldn’t have written the perfect words
So overwhelmed by this thing,
Your heart, your mind, your hands,
They could have never written a word to hold the elusive thing washing over me now.