I wish that maybe you weren’t so afraid.

Those were the only words I could conjure from my mouth last night, when I should have been pleading for you to take my hand.

I am not talking cheesy wedding bells and frilly dress nonsense.

Just take my **** hand and let me show you why I love you.

There are no strings attached with me, and don’t you dare tell me that you that you cannot see how loyal I am to you. I should have pleaded my case right then and there, but I am now, and I want you to listen to me.

Writing a love poem is hard now a days. It seems like everything has been said and done in almost every conceivable way.

I don’t want to spell you hand-me-down words.

I want to spoon feed you the lust from my soul as if it were a book that had never been written. Let the words I write for you spread across the decades for all to serenade a doll like you.

I want you to cherish our romance.

I see you for what you are and I see that there is potential for me to hopelessly fall. I may be a tad bit reckless with the way that I toss about my words for you like a lust struck conundrum, but try to see me for what I am.

My hands are reaching for your heart.

Let me in.

I’ve been knocking on that door of yours for days now, and I just want to know if I’m going to get my fair shake at this. I cannot sit here and blab my trap about how or why I’m so different, but I know you can see it in my eyes. I will lose the rest of my hope in this world, if I do not get my fair shake at this.

Take my hand please. I’ll gladly get down on my knees and explain to you why graveling doesn’t suit me, but at this point, I’ll do anything to make this a reality.

I want to show you that chivalry isn’t dead, and that I would do just about anything to be able buy you a 15 cent Coke and take you to the drive in movie in my thunderbird.

This is the heat of summer, this is it.

I’m here.

So spare yourself the conscious scrutiny of my demise, and give me a chance.

You won’t be sorry.