I have this book that I use to write.
I've written countless poems about you, for you.
That hint towards you.
And the hardest thing is knowing
That you may never get the
Chance to read them.
Maybe it is because I'm scared
Of what you may say or
What you'll think...
That constantly keeps me on
The brink of letting you in on
The secrets.

I'll see you another day
But for now I must lay
This pen down and rest.
My heart is tired of writing
About you for now