An unsung song thumping within the confines of a rib cage. The rhythm varies in tempo, but I can tell your song is played in my key. A frequency and a pitch marred as obscene by those unworthy of your serenade, but please, sing always to me.
I imagine your heart as an abstract piece of art. Multi dimensional, shards of a shattered soul portruding at all sorts of odd angles. Try as I might, I fail to make out a single clear image amongst the colors that streak your soul, for you are so much more than just one thing. To me you are everything. You are this priceless piece of art, more than valuable. You can't put a price tag on perfection.