All my love, lay on a canvas,
like a piece of modern art.
Visible to all, but you.
Understood by few; but you.
All my voices, lay on paper,
like a fiction, unread by you.
I exist as silent words,
You, like a humming melody.
Both together, a song.
Let fate sing it aloud,
perhaps melt the barriers,
the strangeness in being strangers.
You know it, I am that right word,
for that feel of love and joy
you can’t seem to describe;
without me, unless it’s me.