–You like your poetry with a bit of rhyme.
So I threw some into here (kind of, sometimes).–
Some prefer pictures. Others scoff, “They’re not deeds.”
But words still mean so much to someone like me.
Authors weave their text while extroverts talk lots.
I’ll always be both if I like it or not.
We’ve already built a new language ourselves.
We have effortless fun and well-stocked bookshelves.
So surely it befuddles one so astute
that sometimes I still swiftly go rather mute.
Once, a while ago, I almost lost my voice.
Writing, like love, is a deliberate choice.
My view about labels was really just this:
“If you don’t define things, they’re harder to miss.”
But I’m done with dread and I forego hiding.
I don’t want to stop our worlds from colliding.
So you can write them down or just take them in.
You can swallow them whole. I’ll type them again.
You can choose them carefully or blurt them out.
You can whisper or murmur or sing or shout.
We can dance and date and enjoy and entwine.
You can say I’m yours; I’d love to call you mine.