I wrote a poem on the mist
And a woman asked me what I meant by it.
I had thought till then only of the beauty of the mist,
             how pearl and gray of it mix and reel,
And change the drab shanties with lighted lamps at evening
             into points of mystery quivering with color.

  I answered:
The whole world was mist once long ago and some day
             it will all go back to mist,
Our skulls and lungs are more water than bone and tissue
And all poets love dust and mist because all the last answers
Go running back to dust and mist.

Dearly beloved,
You once asked me how deep my love is for you. I never answered.
You see.. I wasn't sure.. whether you would like what I say. I didn't want to overwhelm you with my reply.
I'm a possessive soul.
I can't share what is mine. You may call me selfish.
That's okay.
If being selfish means having you all to myself.. then yes I'm the most selfish person on this planet.
As for my answer, my love for you cannot be measured. It's unfathomable, boundless and unrestricted. There is no depth to my love for you. There is no end to it. Nothing will ever be able to suffice how much I adore you...