I can see myself getting lost in you,
Comparable to a current in a tiny stream,
For this is nothing grand,
You and I are not the sea.
I can imagine the two of us walking
In a city far away,
3 or 4 years from now,
Only then, we'd be touching less slightly
Than we are now.
I mean to say that you might
Have an arm around my shoulders or a
Hand upon my waist,
A modest and silent but lovely way
To show that 
I am not the world's woman,
But your woman,
And that this is steady and strong,
And people will think to themselves:
"Look, they've probably been together for years, 
But even so... how could that be wrong?"
In 3 or 4 years,
Sometime aroud 7 a.m.,
Sunday maybe, 
Holding coffee & hands
In the jungle-city,
As compared to yesterday,
Walking through this town's veins
Which we've memorized,
Our elbows grazing awkwardly
As we stride,
Afraid to make the next move,
Unsure of where to start,
But not quite wanting another second apart.
What I hope, my dear,
Is that after you and I fall asleep
Without a kiss but with foreheads touching,
After we wake up, grin,
Then look at eachother but don't dare shift,
What I hope is 
That you help this princess (or so you've called me)
Step down from her tower,
That you be forceful, yet never underestimate her power,
That you miss her while she's gone,
That you help her down,
But never let her down.