If I told you I loved you, it'd be a cliché. If I said no one can love you like I can, it wouldn't be true. But what I can say, I will say.
Love's satchel bears my feelings. Passion, affection, sentiment. Lack of attention tells me to get you out of my system. Exertion. Nicotine, you make my heart rate rise, my blood pressure is high, sky high. Caffeine, My heart races when you are nigh. I'll never leave you, there's no reason to fly. Although I am anxious to see you, you lack it for me. On my love you do sleep. Oh barbiturate! What drug are you? I beseech thee, tell me! I can't take these withdrawals anymore. Are the stars aligned? Are they telling me its time? Oh, clocks. Round and about they do go. Just like us, no, not clocks. A rollercoaster. My heart can't take the drops. Although it handles the ups very well, in fact looking forward to them. I try not to look down. When I am battered and left to die, you pick me up. Good Samaritan. You sometimes show you care for me. Moments. Those moments, that lift my spirits making it as though nothing would ever go wrong again. Your skin, brown, the mud. The dirt that alters to liquid after a rain. Showers of my love. For if I were a farmer, I would have a lot of your mud. To kiss you at this time, would be as galvanic as making it into those gates of heaven. To be risen off this earth, into eternal happiness. Out of all the stars in the skies, you stand out to me. You shine bright. A sun in the darkest light. Tell me how do you feel? Are your sensory neurons intact? A literal feel. My skin against yours. Soft versus course. In-between we meet, just as one should for an agreement. An agreement to stay true. An arrangement to feel for you. An understanding to never part, unless the uttermost circumstances separate our hearts. In my phone as I go through my contacts, the only one I want to text is you. I re-read our old messages, the appealing ones of course. I'm in awe by how much things have changed. Your love used to be bestowed upon me. Now I have to pry it from your hands. Every day it's something different. I feel as though ill never know exactly what you think about me, or as though I'll never get a full experience with you, but just a part-time one. I want to own the car, not test drive it. I want to know that it's my own and that I won't have to return it. I want to fill it up with gas, clean it, and take it out on trips. I don't want the dealer to do so. I want the keys. I want to sign the papers. The marriage papers. You and I alone. If I assured you that I was in love, would you believe me?