I lay here with the book that is my memory,
left opened by my dreams,
opened to where I’ve earmark,
to where I have gilded the pages,
where each smile is inked in red letters,
and all the notes she wrote in the margins remind me of her limerence.
They say a man can never give the same love twice,
and that someday somone will light a fire inside of you that can not die.
“They” whoever they are, have never said a thing more true.
In the dew of morning hours,
in my daydreams,
and when twinkling stars brighten an otherwise despondent sky.
I love her,
and for the rest of my life I can not wait to love her,
I can not wait to live for the dream of every terrible pang in my heart.