Sometimes I ponder if my love is true,

For I've not penned a verse that speaks of you.

A poem, yet unwritten, waits its birth,

To capture feelings deep, my heart's own worth.

How much I cherish you, my silent muse,

What thoughts of you in quiet moments fuse.

The things I like, the ones I can't abide,

All tangled in my heart, unsung, untied.

When will your smile, that beacon in my night,

Illuminate my lines with love's pure light?

And when your anger flares, a tempest wild,

Shall I find words to soothe, to reconcile?

My verses may lack polish, rhyme, or grace,

Yet love, unyielding, fills this empty space.

Sometimes I wonder, as the seasons turn,

If love's sweet fire within me burns.