I don't want to be a coward.
I want to be strong
but it's hard when I don't know what to say
(everything I can think of feels wrong
and I struggle to picture in my mind a real conversation with you,
because I'm scared.)

I blow air into the balloon in my chest
and look across at you
but as my eyes smile and try their best to be honest
I deflate and it seems I can't get through
the thick, grey doubt
clouding my judgement.

I want to tell you that I care
about you and your smile and the way
it paints a crease on your chin
but sometimes I struggle to say anything
that could even so much as doodle an expression
on those familiar features.

Perhaps you are having thoughts quite similar
when you lie down to sleep.
And when you wake early
to go for a run - while your feet
put distance between us - I wonder
if your thoughts pull me closer.
I don't know.

Honestly, these dramatic words don't feel right to me.
They don't suit you
like I want to suit you.
They don't match the pure, honest truth, which is that
I think you're unique.
You're talented and beautiful and you bring me joy.
You're cute and quiet and strong and bold
and I hope that very soon I'll be able to speak some of this to you properly.
You probably know half of it already, and
it makes me twice the coward, that I haven't been able to speak directly to you what has already been said  in every vague hint and stare and hug and simpering compliment that I've passed your way.
I really want to be strong.