Subfluity of Words

It's hard to write of love that has succeeded;
It sounds too much like boasting, or self-praise.
Some other register of speech is needed
That puts aside that worry, and allays
The fear of seeming sappy, trite, or dull.
I cannot seem to perfectly define
What it should be - but I forever mull
The question, since just such a love is mine:
I am delighted every day with her,
And cannot smile without her in my mind;
If I'm not with her, then I wish I were;
By this, and such like thoughts, love is defined.
But even these grow stale with use, and I
Find little left to write except a sigh.