Packing My Words

One of the most famous descriptions of what poetry is comes from Wordsworth, in the Introduction to Lyrical Ballads; "The spontaneous overflow of powerful emotions recollected in tranquility." (Or something very close to that) I think the second bit is what often gets ignored by me, the waiting until a tranquil time to think on those emotions. If this poem is confusing in its message, it's because I need to wait longer (or because I suck at this, but I really hope it's the first option).

Perhaps this cannot be said in words

without being misconstrued in some way,

rendering the sentiment either negligible

or in some way offensive, a dilemma

that makes me wonder at the value of silence.

What if you didn’t hear, what if your closest friend

called your name at the instant I spoke

that most crucial of words, my heart sinking

as your head turns to catch her words;

are some words best written?

Could the words be written legibly,

or would my trembling hands prove too much,

reducing you to guessing what each scribble reads,

frustration mounting before the matter

is even fully introduced?

Oh, if there was but some method

desire could be shared, devotion conveyed

just like the time, the degree of ardor

expressed as simply as a shape;

but I, being poor of words, will simply say

I love you.