Sweet nothings race through my head in iambic pentameter.

Because without rhythm, what am I?

Because without delivery, I may as well perfect silence.

Our passion was once Shakespearean,

But it convinced me today that it is ready for the 1940’s,

And the 1950’s.

Today. The present. Is not ready for you, or myself for that matter.

I think:

“Love. This is so novel. But the kids… they won’t get it.”

Void of any era.

It was born in Act I, strong.

As a puppy with disproportionate paws and absurd coordination.

We shouldn’t have held something with so much instability.

Love, I’ve seen Act II come and go.

And now I’ve come to find myself in the crescendo of Act III.

I hope to stay.

I hope you stay.