Showing her immortal- it's mine to do- but I can't. Shaping her- just as she is- a thing to an eternity- mood shaping form- imperishable- it's there- I can see it- but I can't say it.
There's no secret about it- she tells it every breathing, breathless moment- I can hear it- but I can't say it.
What can my mere body and scrivening leave you, if it doesn't leave you her?
If I could transcribe one infinitesimal phase of the trillion-starred endowrment which comes tumbling out of simply trying to look at her, or our of catching a glance, slyly pointed, trying to look at me, stirring a trillion-starred emotion, vibrating like a bell across endless tides of endless seas- I'd do it- but I can't.
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