but it would take years.
of me, sitting silent and bent.
never saying a word.
never eating a bite.
never sleeping, or daydreaming,
or running, or walking, or living,
or any other thing,
than to write my love for you.
you touch me like no other human
ever has, or ever will.
my words fall into the deep nothing,
like my tears and laughter fall into my lap.
it would take bibles,
and i cannot,
if i live to be five hundred,
write my love for you.
if you live to be a thousand,
would not have time to read my love for you.
my january brown.
the root of every inspiration.
evidence of every inspiration.