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Darling, I am no poet, no great writer. I am not a wordsmith, and words do not come easily to me; they do not pour off my tongue like wine. But oh my dearest, my darling, if I only I had the words... I would spin you a world full of wonderful things, and forever whisper sweet nothings in your ear. Had I the words, my sweet, I could explain to you all of the ways in which I love you, and simultaneously have no words to express myself with. But alas my darling, for I am no poet. No great writer. I am not a wordsmith, and words do not pour off my tongue like free flowing wine. And all I am left to offer you, is this poor excuse for a poem