TELL ME,

if my journal is full of love ballads, where is the love?

if I feel high when I'm with you, are you the drug?

if these sentiments are hopeless, should I sweep them under the rug?

if I let you know how I really feel, will that be enough?

how does one begin to describe 

the jade marbles they call your eyes?

or how I managed to survive

three months without yours looking into mine?

or how no matter what words I write,

none will ever truly get them right?

why is it that I admire your quirks

or that I never get tired of your same blue shirt?

why all the other girls aren't afraid to flirt

but when I muster up the poise,

it never seems to work?

and the only way I can is through words

written on a page you'll never avert 

your eyes to.

it makes me hurt.

because whenever we talk I always blurt

out things I don't mean 

because the only thing I see

is you in front of me

and everything else is a blur.

that's for sure.

what do I want from you?

you can't even get a clue.

what do I do if these feelings are true

and I blurt them out out of the blue?

will you be at a loss for words I wrote

to you on a wrinkled, sanguine note?

kept hidden so long– my starry-eyed hope.

will you be the one to strip the sugar coat

off of my ardor kept secret, kept cloaked?

will you laugh as if it was all a joke,

oblivious to the heart you just broke?

are these desires enough to keep me afloat

or are my dreams just too far remote

from reality

from the impossibility of you and me

from the intentions of my heart, fragile as fine filigree.