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Dear, It’s What I Am
I am a jealous man, you see,
With passions deep as midnight’s sea.
The restless tide within my chest
Knows neither peace nor soothing rest.

The earth itself, its boundless grace,
Reflects my longing for your face.
The pines that claw the sapphire sky
Whisper your name as I pass by.

I watch the meadows clothed in gold,
Where sunlit grasses sway, and fold,
Each blade a pang, each leaf a cry,
Of love that aches, but won't deny.

Beneath the arch of twilight’s dome,
The rivers carve their path through loam.
Their waters, clear as crystal’s gleam,
Flow with my yearning, stream by stream.

The stars, alight with jealous fire,
Mirror my heart’s unquenched desire.
They burn, they pulse, they fight the night,
Yet cannot claim the morning’s light.

The moon that rises, pale and still,
Holds secrets on her silver hill.
She knows the ache, the quiet plea,
For what you are, and cannot see.

For you are earth and sky and rain,
The joy in beauty, breath in pain.
Each fleeting thing that stirs my soul,
A piece of you, a fractured whole.

You have the grace that wild winds bear,
The fire of sunlight in your hair,
The endless calm of evening’s shore—
And I, in want, can crave no more.

Dear, it’s what I am, this truth must stand:
I am a jealous, longing man.
But jealousy, though sharp its art,
Is born of love that breaks apart.

So let me gaze, though far you be,
At nature’s splendor, wild and free.
For every leaf, each grain of sand,
Holds what I need—your touch, your hand.

If I could speak, if you could know,
The roots of longing buried low,
Perhaps the stars might cease to weep,
And love might find its quiet sleep.

But until then, the world must turn,
While deep within, my passions burn.
The earth may give, the sky may span,
But I remain—a jealous man.
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