The words flow like my life blood. They're warm sometimes; with the chill of cold emotion, Unfeeling to the utmost tenderness. If spoken; sounding far too rough for all that they describe. If sung; the music seems inadequate to the grace meant at their heart. Pure and raw, scratched on some scrap. In all, attempts to tell of the magnificence of love; the affect of which I do not even know. Reaching my hand, too clumsy to apply the pain and beauty felt; they stumble and stop.