It's a Practical Matter, Falsely

It isn't so much that my world turns around you,

Or that you're all I can ever think of,

Or even that you're the only one I see.

I don't walk on clouds when I'm with you--

That seems unstable--

Or hear music when you look at me

(And if I did, would you forgive me for not listening to what you're saying?)

Or dance every step I take at your side;

I'm not much of a dancer.

No, it's more that my heart has become accustomed to being where I put it,

And I'd rather not uproot it from its comfortable home in your chest.

The good news

Is that, if you want to give it to me,

My heart left a lovely little place where yours could stay

Just North-East of my lungs.