I wanted to write him a poem,

a creation as intelligent and complex as he is

something that could spark his interest

and render him speechless

I wished to make this pen beat against the paper

the way my heart stutters when he is near

Shall I empty my veins into inkwells?

A shallow attempt at bringing these words to life

but I would, just for the possiblity that he would read them

or maybe for the hope that they moved him

But how could words that are thrown together so carelessly

and frequently and inappropriately influence him?

I refuse to use the word love when it is bastardized 

to discribe any emotion stronger than like and

I shall not substitute my heart for my mind when I know

that though my heart beats when he's near

my mind instructs it to do so

As you can see, my hands have been tied for me

to think and feel as I do, yet unable to rest on unreliable words

But I always content myself with imagining you reading this

and wondering who I am.