So what if I think you're beautiful?
Does that part the seas, does it bend the trees?
Do astronauts refuse to fly? Do martyrs suddenly refuse to die?
Does the world
because I want you to love me?
Was it a matter of choice
a topic of fate?
Or did I just wake up one day
Fell into my pauper clothes, and decided to grasp the sun?
When the truth is, I've been a moon worshiper my whole life.
I do love a challenge.
I do know... every day I read your face
every chance I have to see your thoughts
My world becomes an iota better.
Does that mean I love you,
in some vague language of the mad?
I don't love you like the sun.
Warm, lifegiving lightbringer.
Mother of all, giver of.
I love you like salt.
Which is no manner of love at all,
but if you were to grasp those words
How I've grown to make you my life,
how your smile can weather me against any unkind,
perhaps then you would understand:
Without sense, without the explosive rapture of I.
What I would give to need you...