When I say, "love," What do you hear? When I say, "I love you," Is it just a middle syllable Like a metronome beat, Semantic satiation? Or do you feel my omnipotent desire, That you are my world, How being the unshakable Atlas— Rather than a burden— Is the ultimate aphrodisiac? Perhaps, when I prick my finger, Pen my soul in the word, Every letter, Post-It note, And blank notebook space, You are blinded instead. What I would do To share a fraction of the meaning, Unadulterated by translation, Of three Simple little words, To know You know Just how it feels When I say, "I love you."