I could write you a novel; I could write you a book

But would you ever take a second look

At the words that I write, at the feelings that I show

Or does the text remain written, unable to live and grow?

I could write you a story; I could write you a love letter

But would you continually feel better

As my syllables caress your ears, as my tone controls your heart

Or does my voice remain locked on paper, never to part?

I would write you the world if I thought that feelings could be explicitly and completely expressed verbally, if I thought that the firing of signals in the brain, the pounding of the heart, and the gut instinct of love could become real outside the body; but love is trapped inside, and only in the feeble attempts to express it with words can love be set free, to fly freely from one mind to another. To let it go outside with no protection, to let the words grow into an indestructible life force, a tree reaching into the great heights of the sky. Y el cielo es el solo límite: amor está durmiendo en las nubes y pasa por la tierra en la lluvia; cuando el agua proveyendo vida a todo, nuestros corazones están llenos del amor. Y por eso, palabras no son suficientes para explicarlo.