What the hell could I say to you
That would illustrate the basest feeling
I hold in your regard?
I try to map out the perfect explanation,
Fit all the pieces together to make a whole
That is beautiful and moving,
Like a sweeping score that crescendos
Until the emotive climax that sends you to tears;
But every time I dare to utter a word,
The breath escapes my lungs
And I choke,
As though my subconscious recognizes
That to speak of you so inadequately
Is sheer sacrilege,
Because you are beyond labeling or possessing.
The immaculacy of your bravura
Devolves me into a nervous fit—
Worse each time than before—
For you are worthy of nothing less than unadulterated pleasure
And gifts even a monarch wouldn’t inherit;
But for all my posturing,
I am not the embodiment of grace or sanctity you are merited,
And to be anything less is to be undeserving of your majesty.