I don’t write as much.

As I sit reading hotel books, 

Each page dedicated to you,

Every word written is a declaration. 

The ink in my pen bleeds onto the page, 

A masterpiece written for one. 

You are the quiet and the calm, 

The noise and the turbulence.

But everyone knows turbulence is a part of flying,

And I’d hate to stay grounded when I can soar with you. 

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