I repeat "I love you. I love you. I love you," in the car like a prayer. I hope if I say it enough it won't sound real. Maybe if it doesn't sound real it won't be real. It's way too soon for me to tell you. You admitted to me on our second date that you've never been in love before. I'm convinced this is going to be how I scare you away.
I'm trying so hard to shove something that's expanded into its original wrapper. My feelings are intangible and like air disperse all over the room. 'I love you' gets tangled in the cobwebs in the corner of my room that only you can reach. 'I love you' is between the poetry book I want you to read.
I can't survive saying 'I love you' to your face and having you communicate back to me in silence. You are hardly ever speechless. And I can't survive in a world where you have to decide whether or not you really loved me.