As the words trickle off my tongue,
A melody of syllables,
I struggle to compose a symphony
Worthy of you.
The words dance to the rhythm that I set,
And yet, time and again, off-beat,
Two left feet,
I clunk through the feelings I want to express
In a language composed of
Quiet hums and eye flutters,
Grabbed hands and awkward stutters
And blooming blushes followed by a quiet night
Of Chinese food and laughs.
I love you is insufficient,
Like Beethoven’s fifth,
A replayed symphony when
I want to compose our own.
So through quartets and thirds,
I run away with my emotions
In describing the oceans
Of memories I want with you,
A large request that I bequest
With a quiet hope that
Time will write our own melody.