I was mistaken when I said you live in my heart. How absurd I was when you live in my fingertips so that everything I touch is you. How foolish I was when you live in my toes so that everywhere I go there's you. How senseless of me to say you live in my heart when you breathe in my lungs, walk on my mind, and drink in my mouth. I came to pen another poem for you, but even every unwritten poem is you.

Writing poems is simply an excuse to remember You.

Poetry is jealous of you tonight, for as soon as I come to pen a few words, your perfume attacks me in the most civilised manner and I forget myself. I forget the poem. I forget the ...

This poem was meant to be unwritten. But I am writing it now and have thereby changed destiny.

I write our names on the page.What of it, if the paper will be burned?I write our names in the sand.What of it, if the shore will be washed by waves?I write our names on trees that will be cutand benches that will be painted,but what of it?I will keep on writing our namesbecause in this world of ephemera, You and I are the only constant.

Take me when I'm wild.Take me when I'm free.Take me for meand I will take you as you want to be.

The only thing necessary in this world is love. Everything else is secondary.

I am certain, my love, that poetry was born only after your birth.

You have made me a love poet.