You are the purest thought of my
everyday's language
the matrix that gives
sense to my embedded clauses
the syntax of
my meaningless phrases
the commas, periods, that
halt my ends and pauses
You are more than the
seamest juncture
of my uneven syllables
the rise and fall
of my bland verses
the modifiers that dangle
in the thread
of my sentences
You are my every auxiliary
that allows me to express
my moods, aspects, and tenses
the copula
that annex those delicate
adjectives into this
unworthy subject.
You are the adverb
that intensifies and exaggerates
the worth of my actions
the preposition that brings
me to my real place
the conjunction that
interweaves my
fragmented units
Who am I then
but a bound morpheme,
an insignificant affix
in your lexical root,
a broken unit of inflection
a discrete shred
of your noun's declension
a tiny dot
in your eye
An unnecessary
comma splice.
In all this notwithstanding
I see my worth
and my real sense
Within the grammar of
Your love
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