Knowing you, as I do, in cyber-space,
not in the world that we consider "real,"
I have no way of knowing how I'd feel,
if I should chance to meet you face-to-face.

Looking at you, I wonder would I be
embarrassed, mute, uncertain what to say,
and end up wondering why I'd come this way,
not really sure if this was right for me?

Or would we hit it off right from the start?
Two minds that share their innermost ideas
of poetry and life, their hopes and fears,
like two souls with one single beating heart?

(In case you think by cyber-love I'm smitten,
I'll make it clear - it's fantasy I've written.)

I can spend my days laughing and living - distracted by life's demands.

I can spend my evenings gazing into the flickering candles, letting pen touch paper and transporting myself to far away lands.

But night. Night comes uninvited, an intruder which forces me to think and drapes me with a blanket of loneliness and sadness.

Maybe I can spend my nights, but only when I'm holding your hands.

When you see two people looking into each others eyes, not flirting, or creepy
Just looking
And you think, that is love.

When you see them with pressed foreheads together but with eyes closed
But not kissing
And you think, that is love.

When you see them smiling at each other
And holding hands and laughing
But not flirty
And you think, that is love.

And so I think, that is love.

do you see that boy? that one is mine.
Let me paint him for you:

His eyes are the impossibly beautiful ones. The kind that aren’t one color, but thousands of shades at once. His eyes are worthy of drowning in.

His hands are the type that know to protect, but to never overstep their boundaries so clearly drawn. The type that might be cold, especially when they aren’t tangled perfectly with my own.

His hair is like a sea of midnight, with parts of the waning crimson of dusk shining through. Soft, like the moon’s glow, and long enough to smile into.

His skin is pale like fair moonlight against the dark shadows of the world. His skin is soft, but not too soft. Everything perfect to touch, and to kiss.

His lips are perfectly... perfect. When they’re twisted into a smile from a laugh from a joke or comment I made that wasn’t even really that funny. ((His lips are best when they’re writing beautiful words against my own.))

he is perfect. in so many ways.