Sometimes I all I can muster is to just sit and watch you, because, in a multitude of perfectly imperfect moments, that’s all I can do: stare.
Because the slightest pull of being in your atmosphere; the rhythm and risk of my name on your lips; the simpleness of knowing your fingers will clasp mine without a second of doubt: these are things people have written sonnets and plays and cried and laughed about and have gone to war over since man’s eyes first laid themselves on another. Yet, as history rolls on, no one has been able to capture those words. No library, or painting or monument can ever truly capture the depth and passion and rawness of unadulterated adoration within the love-stricken human being.
So as I sit and watch with the same widened eyes as generations before us did with their own paramour, I realise that I too cannot find those words. I realise that I cannot build you a palace. I cannot mark your name in posterity’s history books. I cannot rearrange the stars from their idiosyncratic welds and form our own skyline.
But I know what I can do: I know that I could scour dictionaries and anthologies and learn languages and write volumes of poetry all in vain to find those words that I’m looking for. But there is no need, because the most profound things in life are too great, too powerful, too wondrous for words.
And with that, I am content, for I would rather love deeply than search widely. I would rather give you my heart than the moon, or a river or Giroud’s autograph (though you may debate with me on this one). I would rather communicate my love with action and deed than a simple set of syllables. You are more than a worn out and static phrase: you are active and present and as real as the air residing in my lungs as I write.
You are oh so marvellously ineffable.