The Language's Last Stand

I have run out of things to say. I constantly search for the proper way to tell you all of these things, these swelling things that sit so deeply in my chest, but the end of every journey is the same. My tongue goes numb, paralyzed by the overwhelming ardor that radiates, practically poisons all of its surrounding neighbors. I am reduced to my most primitive state, grunting or "mm"-ing in a last, desperate attempt at making you understand.

I know that I am a jumble of letters, of words, of failed attempts at relaying what's inside of me. Tangled and interwoven, I have come to accept that there is simply no hope at making me orderly again. Thoughts interrupt other thoughts. Feelings dissect other feelings. I am surrounded by the seemingly hollow cross-sections of pieces belonging to a larger whole that I can no longer locate.

You make my skin want to break free from my body, wanting to leap and run and feel the wind through all of its pores. You make me want to sit in the sunlight, cocooned in the whispered secrets of the breeze. You make me want to drown in the ecstasy that is Life, leaving no joy unknown and no love untouched.

Oh, but how can I say these things to you?

How could I possibly find the words, the ways to manifest and create a concrete thing out of nothing more than the stuff that kissing-in-the-rains are made of?

I echo the sonnets and odes and words far more poetic than these in my reverberating chorus:

I

I love

I love you

Oh, how I love you so.