The why of my wanting you differs each time.
(The wanting, returning, is always the same.)
So strangle my reason and drown it in rhyme:
to query the telos of love is a crime.
(And I know there’s only one crook in the frame.)

The why of my wanting you differs each time;
this quiddity mocks me. Intense and sublime,
the language of love is revealed as a game
that strangles my reason and drowns it in rhyme —
so reason must die, then be buried in lime
and rise like a phoenix on feathers of flame.

The why of my wanting you differs each time;
in doing so, wanting refuses regime,
revealing the heart as a phoenix to tame.
I’ll strangle my reason and drown it in rhyme,
have faith in love’s meter and tempo, and chime
the bell in my chest at the sound of your name.

The why of my wanting you differs each time.
You tangle my reason; I crown you with rhyme.