I want to write
of things that matter.
Of things that make
the world go round.
Of things that bring color to
gray skies and lifeless routines.
Of things that bring forth
music like that of an
angel’s choir.
Of things that take one’s
breath away.
Of things that make one lie
awake at night
thinking, dreaming, wishing.
But alas, I cannot,
for I only write of
things that I know—
and of love,
I know not.