“You are the soundtrack of my days, spinning endlessly in my mind,” you said.
Well, love, if I’m a song, you’re the composer giving it voice. My heartbeat, hardly steady, is wholly dependent on the tempo of your steady breathing. Young love fills the air in our lungs and our song with a melody, complemented by the beautiful harmony of gentle stares and brushing hands.
And your words, spoken honest with your eyes fixed on mine, create the lyrics, in tune with young love’s written melody. Our song, so carefully and effortlessly composed, couldn’t fall flat to even the most critical of ears.
No, love, I’m not a song. We are.
No comments:
Post a Comment