The eloquence escapes me when she is near.
I want to convey my distant infatuation in some poetic way.
Her fragrance hangs in the air like summer roses as I walk past her in the hall.
She knows not of my awkward feelings toward her, and perhaps never will.
My nerves always jumble my words as I build up the courage to speak to her.
Her beauty and smile reaches me from far across the room.
I daydream of speaking to her, but when she approaches, I fall short.
I meander like a shy schoolboy.
All I want to say is that I think she is an angel.
I am worthy not of her grace and transient manner.
Perhaps someday, with the right success and confidence,
I can approach my angel, and tell her all the things I want to say.
Hopefully, she will still be around. Or perhaps another prince will
snatch her from my grasp; and my true love will never be found...
Copyright © Darrell Hoover