There isn't anything left to say. Or rather, there's nothing to say that makes any sense. I've said everything I can think of to convey the way I feel. It's a little complex, but nothing beyond your grasp, I don't think.
If anything, it's a difficulty of era--of time and space and understanding. A little more time or a little more space would probably do it, but we're all so impatient. We think we know what we want.
All I ask is a minute to breathe. For you and for me. A minute to read those books. To bathe in them and wash a little understanding into the dye.
I love you has to factor in here somewhere.