While I speak to you,
while I stand before you—
it feels as though I am speaking to my own soul:
I love you.
What need is there to say I love myself?
I know, I already know, before the words even form.
What is the point of repeating outwardly
what already burns within?
So does this not mean—
I am lost in the madness of love?
Does this not mean—
I am drunk with the wine of ecstasy?
Does this not mean—
my words are mere ripples on the surface,
and unnecessary?
After a while, after so long,
perhaps four thousand years,
I know: there is no point.
Yet still, I can choose silence.
Silence can burn you and me—
can burn everything
except what is necessary.
What if I stand before you,
and I long to speak for a decade?
Only silence can truly say:
I love you.