I don't think I've ever mentioned to you
just how much.

If you collected all the sand
from every beach on earth,
(including the one you took me to
the day we felt particularly adventurous,)
and weighed every ounce of it,
you might have measured some
of how heavily my heart pounds around you.

And if you gathered all the stars
that dance across the Milky Way,
and counted them up, one by one,
you'd have a fraction of the number
of times you've made my heart
stop completely, in awe of you.

And if you walked through every butterfly exhibit
of every science museum and zoo on the planet,
and allowed each and every one of them
to flutter their wings against your skin,
you could maybe get an idea
of the feeling in my stomach every time I see you.

And if you found every book ever written—
every poem, every letter, every essay—
that tried to describe what this feels like,
and you leafed through every page, taking in
every single cliché and thought in existence on the topic,
you might know some of the words that go through my head
every time that you get closer to me.

That's how much.