I am a writer. I breathe language. Words trickle effortlessly from the crevices of my mind and flow smoothly into sentences upon touching the unsullied earth, gradually accumulating into an interminably vast ocean of poetry and lyrics.
But not once have I ever written about you. I never write about you. And you hate that I don’t.
You fail to realize that you, love, are beyond any and all words in the English language. Every little thing about you transcends whatever arbitrary value people from long ago have invested into orderly strings of letters that, if you really think about it, don’t actually amount to anything.
I have yet to encounter a word that is even remotely on par with you. But, god, sometimes I wish I had the capacity to learn a new language each day. I would love to spend the rest of my life, searching for the perfect word that can succinctly describe the way you make me feel.
— Excerpt #1, Why you will never find your name in any of my sonnets