A Man of Few Words
I'm a man of many words they say,
but my love, how can I, when they're so few?
and I'm not a man of words anyway,
nor are my words men I can stand to attention;
they're just my play on sound and interaction
with no meaning unless you stand beside them;
that's all I know -- and what is there to explain
about things I don't understand?
--how can I answer their questions?
of how you looked into the box of my heart
and fastened corners breaking apart,
oiled creaky hinges and strengthened my screws;
how you put your woman's hand to everything
to sew the threads in me brand new,
a lifeline running right through me to you;
but how can I speak so little of you?
when these few words are never enough
to capture the truth of our love,
--what can I explain of its hue?
of how it spreads us out from above,
naked under its sun, destroying all shade
except the shade of your loved one,
of how no physical pain inflicted
hurts as much as being without it;
your life's water ebbs to its drought,
and what else about these inadequate lines?
except what our heart's senses prescribe:
that love must be lived rather than described,
--for mere words do no justice to our lives.