How is it that when I’m alone reels of pages appear before my eyes
Entire stories woven with the words I wanted to say but
Never found the bravery to let pass beyond my lips.
How is it that when I’m alone phrases flower on my tongue
But when I look into his eyes they falter, never flow
The silent sentences shrivel, their dried petals falling slow
I love him, but what will I do without the words to tell him so?