You are my composition.

You are my composure. You are my concerto in D sharp major. You are my moonlight sonata, dancing under a pale moon, to the tickling of the ivories so fine and unique. 

You are my dance to the three four beat. 

You are my ragtime piano. 

You are my symphony, somehow better than that bar that goes beyond music. 

And into chocolate. 

You are my key of c and a minor.

No sharps. 

No flats. 

Just perfect and immovable. 

You are my love. 

You are my life. 

You are my new Paris, for I sadly left it long ago. 

You are my writers block. 

You are what stops my pen. 

What sucks it dry and steaks the rest. 

But somehow I still love you. 

Like I can't win.

A game I can't win.