A better poet might have the words to describe my love for you,
A better painter might paint his canvass just the perfect hue.
A dancer might set in motion the perfect scene to view
But another man can’t speak my heart, so my words will have to do.

I could tell you that your love is far more fine than any sand
Finer than the finest cloth touched by a master’s hand
Finer than any watchman’s works to ever tell the time,
Finer than a vintner can make his best-aged wine.

I could go a very different route and talk about a rose.
I could talk about a living friendship; a love that grows and grows
But my words can only fail me, and it is time, I suppose,
To accept that my love for you cannot fit within my prose.

The words I want to use are the grandest of the grand,
I beg my muse, I threaten, I coerce and I demand,
To have the perfect words, to make you understand,
But the best that I can do is to simply take your hand and say I love you.