I could write you a million sonnets that would challenge Shakespeare's but not be able to express the emotions that I have. For you.
I would have my talent ripped from my body and my words peeled away with my flesh just to hear you uttering the same sweet nothings in return to me.
I guess that you just don't have my gift with words, but I want to hear you gasp for the right string of sounds that tell me that you love me a few hundred times over in just two or three sentences.
Maybe, maybe I'm trying to hard.
Maybe, maybe I feel like your heartbeat is the echo of your unwritten poem to me titled I'm with you.
Maybe your kisses on my skin are like signatures, like your love is your work of art, maybe I am your clay to sculpt, you said today I was becoming warmer, it's because you're rubbing the paint of your perfect picture off onto me.
Maybe the soft touch of your arms against me is your melody, singing the song that you wrote for me as your fingers trace scars, setting the stitches in my mind, and poisoning the depression left in my veins.
And maybe it took me too long to see that your gift with words are for ones that you don't even need to speak.
You are vision, my inspiration, my clarity, yet you are just barely out of my grasp so that I cannot yet call you mine but I would be delighted to call myself yours.
So will you call me yours?