daughter rambling about low-key, high-key this and that
while I bring the noise in the key of bees, a tired old
pugilist throwing punches in the air, nothing there!
carrying on about made-up words and nonsense noise,
but in the end it all falls short, teenage slang or not—
even to say, “I love you”; it could be a lifetime
to know how far that goes, and another lifetime to
trust what is quiet and unspeakable between us.

…

My daughter is 13-years-old. The verses in the poem have 13 syllables each. I love her dearly, slang and all.