Here is something I might not ever say,
but something sitting in my mind everyday.
How could I have done it in so many ways?
And end up so tragic like Shakespearean play?

I might be a saint to tell that I love you,
When you aren't listening or taking the clue.
Lately I find myself huddled in rue
and regrets and shades of the color blue.

I think it was obvious in other things said,
in how you're the one making me not want dead.
I hoped you'd catch on when I'd say go ahead,
telling me of your worries before I lay in bed.

I loathe it now how I never told you straight
but now feel so rushed that my words are too late.
If I wasn't anyway, then that would be great;
but if I am, I don't think I can clean my slate.

I love you, I have and I always will.
It's too late to think that this feeling I'd ****.
I fear that to say so, I needed this skill--
I'm too **** adept and it's barely got thrill.

Strange how I need to voice this out in rhyme,
but not to you directly, I've left that sublime.
We've had so much minutes, hours and time,
I don't know if this can get any more prime.

When you just don't hear me, I told you the truth.
That my heart was yours forever; forsooth
and it's in our nature, to make errors of youth.
But we're ahead of our age, reality's sleuth.

Maybe you won't read this, I won't be surprised.
But for my sake I've written, and gone undisguised.
My sentiments for thee have been compromised.
Once more I could love you before my demise.