I often write you poems, but I want to write you songs.
I want to wrap you up in verse and carry you in cadence.
These simple syllable structures do not capture your complexities;
The staccato of careful couplets cannot convey your dulcet dynamism.
An orchestra could better capture the melodic cacophony of your perfect contradictions.
You are pure symphony.
No one was ever more deserving of a song.
And I would sing to you in bird squawks and animal growls
With a shy tongue unable to properly pronounce your beauty.
Just as scribbled poems don’t quite succeed
In expressing your significance to me.
Your song is one I’ve never heard before but that’s always been in my head.
Syllables seamlessly transition into notes, losing all verbal meaning;
Encoding emotion into a refrain that only you and I could know.
In your song, I find a whole new lexicon of love.
A worthier form of art.
You are song so vivid, passionate, poignant that I could paint it.
Eyes closed in intuition
Deeply, innately, understanding your rise and fall.
Your tuneful discordance.
Majors and minors perfectly palatable to me
As I traverse your flats and sharps.
I want to write you songs.
Instead, I write you poems
Knowing that words alone, no matter how carefully arranged,
Are never quite enough.