And I could write songs,
about your eyes and your stride,
and that precarious smiles.
An ode to your lack of flaws,for all I know.
It's your very words that bear the charm,
and wisdom of the dead lights that blink at the brink,
of my window-those we fondly call stars.
And yet,even that I will not praise too much.
I can go on to the greatest lengths,on about your voice-
the sound of sun and rain and chaos and comfort,all at once.
A ballad for the beloved time you devote.
But it's not what I seek to describe.
For,It is a mere thing-I am much grateful for.
Yet,not a fact so furtive,after all.
It is thy company,forming the tightrope to balance on-
Two minds,that I wish to acknowledge most.
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