As I sit here with the sun beginning to kiss the horizon,
I write you a poem because dreams of you
still dance through my head.

Watching the foreign sky turn pink,
I finally admit that I am writing you a love poem.
I was never supposed to love you.

I wish I could say that I regret this,
but imagining the next time I can be wrapped in your arms
forces me to admit that's a lie.

With an energy that draws me in,
an interpreter's expressions and a smile that holds me there,
I love you.