To My Secret Eros

I miss you.  I think of you everyday.  

Perhaps it's all senseless, for it must be

with such a great distance between us.

For even if I knew your heart felt the same,

what could possibly come of it now.

 

Lucky am I to know such a unique, strong, compelling, askew, caring person.

You are my flint, my sharpener, my muse, my friend.  

You conjure a desire inside me like no other. 

The desire to be a better and smarter person.

I wish I was more comely and svelte for you.

If only you could fancy me as I do you. 

I can improve this veneer for you. 

If this corpulence disappeared, would you have me?

I envy the girls who get to see you, speak with you.

I despise the idea that another girl's lips could meet yours 

or even her fingers intertwined with yours.

I dream of you by day and hope to dream of you at night. 

If only your fingers could glide across the back of my neck and into my hair.

If only I could hug you without reserve and caress your face.

To look deep into your eyes and transfer my thoughts to you, my desires.

To kiss you, to hold your hand, to rest my head on your chest. 

It seems lately, I want nothing more but to fast forward time,

 so I can see you again.

I seem so willing to forfeit all the fascinating experiences I could have this year,

if that would mean I could be with you sooner.

Would it all be in vain? Would it be a gamble I surely regretted?

Perhaps this is your cruelest transgression.  

The fact that you don't surrender to sentimentality, nor write pathetic blogs whilst listening to kitschy late 90s Celine Dion love songs.  

You don't begrudge the past, obsess about the future, you solely live in the present.

Don't you like to suffer, even just a little to remind yourself you are alive?

Are you capable of becoming impassioned, infatuated, saccharine? 

Do you miss me? Do you think and dream of me? Do you want me?

I fear these answers... and yet, I still wholly covet you.