There is no song that sings the words I feel.
No poem with words that describe the butterflies you awakened
That keep my heavy heart lifted above my lungs.
No song makes me breathe like your voice.
I search, believe you me,
But the thousands of words that reverberate through my cranium
Can never define the recreation of my soul you began
Before you held my hand and showed me how to make me...me.
No chord hits the note of your angelic sigh
Or the sleepy snort of laughter through your (perfectly constructed) nose.
Bach, Beethoven, nor Mozart could quite pin the grace
That was used when creating everything that escapes from you.
No chisel tinking tirelessly against flawless marble
Was ever successful in piecing together your perfect imperfections.
No Christian in a pew ever knew of the praise and worship spent
Over your sun-kissed skin and eyes full of wisdom surpassing your youth.
Yet here I am, a girl with a heart made of lead and rusted nails
In love with an angel with x-ray vision disguised as earth-brown eyes.
He never minds that his wings may get tired, or his halo may be dulled
While we make those songs we yearn for ourselves.