Last night I questioned if I’m going to love you until I’m immune to you,
insusceptible to your warm words.
Do I want to be resistant to your affection?
I’m not sure.
Would I trade our story for pearls and riches?
No, absolutely not.
Our impulsive passion is an enemy of the clock.
It is ironic.
Ironic how swiftly things change through time, yet how painfully slow it takes to heal.
Is it us that needs to tussle with time?
Or do we leave it up to fate to win our battles?
My heart is in the palm of your hands,
so treat me softly.
When you speak to me, remember that your voice makes me misty-eyed.
Your sweet cadence is birds singing,
the composition of your words is electrifying.
The sight of your name enchants me,
again, and again, and again,
until the end of time.
“Madly” you say,
and madly I am.