It's hard to just
Admire from a distance
When you care so much
That your words can't even
Explain what you feel;

When you're sad,
I sympathize,
When you sing,
I harmonize,
When you stop,
I apologize;

I am in love with you
But you can't say the same
About how you see me,
And it's not unfair,
You have yours
As I lack mine
Yet wish you could fill
This gap of which
I will forever miss
And try to learn each day
That I can adapt,
That I can change,
When I cannot;

My brain can't
Remove my memories,
My desire,
For you;

I wish
You felt
The same.

Your letters rain like petals,
Autumn flowers masked with ink,
Floating, drifting, endlessly,
Or so it just may seem;

Wind as the propeller,
The spirit which creates the start,
Of which your words will fly from,
Directly to my heart;

And if echo be what you need,
I shall respond most dearly,
Stanzas attempting to match the beauty
That you will always be;

And that I will never see.

Starlit skies
Wondrous eyes
Look up to
Waiting to die
To join the
Likes of you
As a guide
On a lovely
Summer night

Sell spells that I'd think
Feathered quill and jars of ink
My mind an ice rink
Telling verses, holding weeks
Getting ready to speak

Upon parchment there is no cursor to blink repetitively,
Taunting the author's words out of their skull
As though awaiting a response to the empty request
Of which one should reply most delicately,
Both of thought and of hands,
But hasty one may be;

Words expected like sand dripping through an hourglass
Or silk slipping through the merchant's fingers
Though strong they may hold their grasp;
And once the threads, the grains, run out
They may then begin to feel their mind;

Yet it seems that time has already
                                                              stopped.

Let not rose petals fall
Just to touch the solid soil
And be tainted from the drop
That the dew of morning
Does not even come close to
In size

The list of love
That each person has obtained
Does not run as long
As the list I would send
To Santa each December,
Does not run as wide
As the rivers I waded
As a child,
Does not run as deep
As that clod of dirt
That got stuck in my heel,
Does not run as pure
As the Christian roots
With which I started,
Does not run as white
As the granite ball
That sits upon my window sill,
But there has been
One person among each event
That may just fit the list.