When does my apprehensive foot step over the mythical dotted line?
Did my tired eyes see too far into the tender words you ****** upon my delicate soul?
I am but a flower in a garden of potential love; almost love.

You write me a story overflowing with great intention but of what?
A special appeal is a soft hand tucked between the overworked creases of yours.
My tired eyes see not only what they want to but what they are willing to.
Is that enough?