That’s the thing, darling.
I’m being quite frank
You have a tendency of making
My heart skip like stones across a bank.

You shrug my words off jokingly,
But listen to me, dear
Though you let it roll right by
My words aren’t insincere.

Day one, two, three,
Then one hundred may pass by
And who knows maybe each time
I may just shrug and sigh

My joking isn’t joking, really –
It’s merely masking fear;
That one day you might sense the frankness
And cease to let me near.