That's not difficult,
That's impossible,
Which is much easier.

There's no such thing as a perfect fit
   even for those with the sharpest wit.

Your eyes were sweet as coffee,
Warm with endless purity,
Intrigued by your aroma,
Falling deep into coma,
Take a sip or two,
Maybe three will do,
Till it burns my tounge,
Leaving me a mark,
Of your burning love,

Ever since I was a little child, I always wondered what it would feel like to be an ant. A little teeny-weeny tiny ant. Wandering around in this gigantic world. Following the sugary smell of life, yet all they find are scraps. Collecting all there is from it for their families, and no matter how small the food seemed to us humans, it would always be HUGE for them to carry.

Later on, I grew a bit older, and I started to think, how did the first ant that was ever killed feel like? to be stepped on by a huge giant foot, and without it even realizing that it had stepped on an ant.

How strange it is that such a critter can carry 50 times its own bodyweight, yet can be killed so abruptly.

Would it feel anything? Or would it simply just die? Would her family and friends even realize that it’s dead? Does it even have friends and family and little ants that cared about it?

I wasn’t really sure about the answer, but I always wondered about it.

And then it hit me, or should I say smashed me. That same giant foot I was talking about. No not only did it smash me, but it squished me, squished me hard enough, that I became nothing but a…? I guess I became nothing.

Since then, I knew exactly what the answer was. To be a little tiny creature smashed to the ground. Nobody noticed. Nobody cared. Or did they?

That you cannot see it,
Neither touch it,
Yet it is felt,
When you place thy hand
In my beating heart,
And it begin to beat so fast,
As if heart attack is calling me,
Yet it is the affection,
The heart only recognizes as its own
THAT IS LOVE

She had never said it first,
and it is doubtful she ever will.

Maybe it was the first disappointment...
She danced with her Dad,
a four year old toe head
standing on top of his feet,
uncoordinated,
hanging on for dear life!
A simple, child's mind
could never comprehend
why little a  girl
could not marry her Daddy.

Maybe it was The First.
He never said it,
neither did she.
They were never in love,
nor did they pretend to be.

Maybe it was The Taker,
The Worker, or The Money Maker,
on a cold Christmas
or a snowy New Year's Eve.
Maybe it was pieces,
parts of all of these.

Each one who came,
soon went,
another brick in her
tower of solitude.
A fortress built,
no man could penetrate.

You could have her,
sure...
But you could never
have her.
You could take her out
for seafood and wine,
and hold her hair back
when she puked.
You could take her to a Cubs game,
hot dogs, beer, and Harry Caray
in the seventh inning stretch...
But still, you could never
have her.
In the morning,
you, or you, or you
had to go.
You, or you, or you
could never get too close.

All the while
she was waiting,
watching and waiting...
Riding time,
longing for, and craving
the one to  bring the fire,
the one who could wrap
her in his flame.