I love you in a thousand ways more than life;
and 'tis that number
and not one far greater
only as I've found you in it.

And I ask only that as the arts show us how to live
and the sciences let us,
that you be the art to give me science.

From when we met, you have witnessed the struggle
that is to hold the memory of our love,
as I wish not to promise to spend a day many years from now
recalling that which we had.

It seems, however, that words exist
but not for me to use them,
for my love is pure
and I cannot believe
with them I express myself well enough;
as it flies in the face of all that I know
that you could sense these, my feelings,
and still not be moved to act.

So it is either that I am a poor writer
or that you do not love me.
And so in both cases I feel I should cease
my unfruitful attempts for your heart.

Without you, my life has halted,
as I can bear not these idle moments,
for they come with a sense of loss,
one I hold I can never restore;
and so I write.

But if my words are not enough;
if my actions in those times we met
were but faintly whispered peace cries
in a war of lives to be had;
if my love was but a vacant motion
toward Heaven's punctuation,
then I thank you with an unabating love.