I really admire you, you know that?
I love looking over to you in a dimmed classroom,
and seeing the same thing every morning.
An open notebook, begging you to write more.
You're like me.
We find such comfort in the pencil and paper.
They are our relief and escape.
This, my friend, is the way we pour forth our souls.

I thought the other day the right words could never leave my mouth.
They bubble up in my chest and in my throat.
Rising, rising, risi-
then escape through my fingertips.

You rip the paper out and delicately fold it up.
Gently now, those words are precious.
So I know that with a great deal of trust
you place it in my hand.
This, my friend, is the way we connect.
And the level on which we connect is a transcendental one.
Our words are perpetuated through ink and graphite.
This is the reason for my admiration.
You understand.
You're like me.

Let me bury my head into your chest.
I'll fall in love with your heartbeat,
and its slow, rhythmic dance.
(Or is it lively?)
Forgiveness goes a far way,
if it's an entirely different tempo than my own.
I'll fall in love with the way they learn to waltz together.
And I'll admire it as if it's  
the most beautiful thing I've known.

And I came to realize that all these common eyes of brown ever wanted was to gaze upon the marvelous sight of you.
For a time my only concern was the vast cosmos,
and my mind attempted constantly to comprehend it.
But had the foolishness finally fled from my heart?
It posed as the wise one when it turned my focus to you.
And I fell for the sun's rays in the depth of your eyes
and concluded that I was interested only in the constellations formed from the freckles scattered on your cheeks.
The only space that fascinated me was the space existing between your fingers.
Yes, I assumed that my senseless heart had regained its wit.
Little did I know.
For once a stargazer, always a stargazer,
and my heart had become a fool for the universe in you.