While You Were Sleeping, I Was Writing This Song

Angel of the quietest light,
Only star in another wise silent night.
I love you.
And that's the truth.
And the truth shall never set me free.
For being here, imprisoned by your arms,
Is where this Wanderer wants to be.
Around you even falling
seems to feel like flying,
at least for a little while.
I heard that in a story
About a man named Bad.
Who played a sad song,
Every night, down every country mile.
Every night you crash into me
with the sound of a thousand
thunderclaps muffled tightly
in the hollows of my chest.
You are the reason I write poetry,
and sing out loud to an empty room.
You are my Sunday morning,
You are my day of sacred rest.
The dancer and the dance.
The lover and the beloved.
The drunkard and the wine.
The Sufi in his whirlwind trance.
You are my music, you are my song,
You are the sound that moves me along.
You are mine, in this world
and all the others that may come.
You are my destination,
Whichever way I may choose to run.
You are. So I am.
Here in the shade of all these
crumbling things is where we'll stand.
In a growing pool of liquid regret.
They say all things must end.
But we're not done loving each other.
At least, not quite just yet.