A Note Poem by Emma Atkinson

How long, Dearest One, have you loved me?
I know not when I started,
Only that I have fallen
And fall deeper ever day we are parted.
If words could form a bridge to cross,
I would not spare them.
Even now I do not,
Except when I am at a loss
Because your voice stills my heart.
You wonder why I whisper.
Dearest, it is the only art
That fails me not when words do.
You rob me of my breath, my sense,
And it is the sweetest consequence
I could ever dream of-
To be, Dearest, if it is even possible,
The receiver of your love.