There are few things we write that have never been said before.
Love is such remembrance of our desire for so much more.
I still don’t understand how that single word to me belongs
It’s meaning, so unknown, its very desire so quaintly wrong.

I have such thick emotions for those things I do not know,
Perhaps that makes me loveless, perhaps that makes me slow,
I know what makes me realise the things I need to show I need
And they’re not the quintessential parameters of anxiety and greed.

I think I know what makes me think the way I think I do
But truthfully all that matters is what makes me look at you,
And that is all I ever lived for all I ever hope to breathe
The most simplistic reminders of why I’d never want to leave.

You always fill my heart with meaning that I’d read about in books
Yet I have lived a life of presumption that all you meant to me was looks
It kills me all as faintly as a poisonous tongue that’s sharp and rests no more
Like something not worth saying or that's been cheaply said before.

I look upon your eyes each day and it makes me want to try
To be a better person and not to gently live a lie.
That you’ll never understand or ever feel was true,
Other than a stark reflection of everything you feel was you.

I have loved upon my heart this day for the worth that it can earn
From the feelings that I know you care for me, your desire, your concern
That someday all we want to have we will always have as one
Like life’s imagining of all those things we have never done.