If I could describe love, the dictionary would hate me for knowing so many words.
A hopeless romantic would be left speechless over my word placement. A love song would have no match for my melody.
If I could describe love, fairytales would be left without magic. Completely tasteless.
A painter’s canvas would be left white, no color would be too bright or too powerful to paint anything. A puzzle with all its pieces would still be incomplete.
If I could describe love, he’d know that this isn’t the first poem dedicated to him. He’d know that a dictionary would still know more words than me and a puzzle would always be complete with all its pieces.
Love would know that poetry is my only love language, and that describing love would describe him. Endless poems like this.
