Rapid Rapid,

is where this was headed:

Last Wednesday I was trying to find three-sevenths of
my soul, which was missing and had eluded me for
the span of my life thus far, but luckily enough
I saw you in all your beauty come through the door
and that's when I knew beyond a doubt that in your love
I found it, my beloved.

Would you believe that there are no words to confess
the depth of my feelings for you, or perhaps you have
already remarked that I am met with emotional distress
and only a pathetic squeak leaves my mouth to save
me from utter silence when I am trying to impress
you, my beloved?

And what of the arrythmia (this I cannot ignore)
that afflicts my heart whenever into your presence
I am thrust, this irregular pounding that is sure
to send me to the emergency room, though in essence
I have never felt better than now, never more
alive, my beloved?

The generic compliments that here I bestow
upon you—hopefully you won't mistake them for mere
empty flattery, for in their generic-ness, though
it may seem trite, they are intended to bear
the universality of what I in my bosom now
hold, my beloved.

For you are like the angel that comes to visit me
when I am infirm, almost dead, beneath a tree, and
your spirit is like a halo—serendipity
itself—compelling me to reach out with my hand
so that you can save me with a caress of mercy
and love, my beloved.

So if you have any of that mercy left, my
beloved, maybe you will overlook the fact
that I screwed up, and forgive me that lie
I told about that one unfaithful act—
and I swear it was only one—so that I
would not have spent this time and racked
my brain for rhyming words for (*sigh*)
nothing.

13 January 2005, Bangor