i would write a poem of love for you but poems have endings and this does not, so in truth, every day shall be a continuation, a brand new ode with every fresh beginning, another chapter in the ongoing tale of impossibility

a second, third, thousandth chance at defining the undefinable in which you embody with the effortless grace of an eagle in flight, of a dolphin breaking the placid surface of the ocean, of the watercolor tapestry of the setting sun

a tale of love for every star in the sky, for every tear shed in waiting for you to appear, for every laugh that was born of pure unbridled joy, for every drop of rain that falls, for every mote of dust, and as the light fades from my eyes, know behind them is one last attempt