When I want to write about you I can never find the words. It all seems inconsequential and transient. This moment is fleeting and won't last much longer, you are the wind in my fingers and the dust on my shelves.
But what of when I have not the space to write about you, for you, to you? Will it be then that my words bubble forth and I slip and stumble over my tongue and my teeth?
If I have learnt anything about love, then yes, that is when it will be.