If

you where to hold my hand and look at me, my heart might skip. I would look away, say “The sky is lovely.” Yet there are clouds covering the sky, like I cloud my words meanings, for in truth, I don’t think anything of the sky, nor trees, nor flowers when I’m with you. Only you. Therefore, I think I need you, and like the infamous poets before me, I will attempt to immortalize you in lines, and woo you with verse. If that should, however, fail, I lose you to the wind, and men yet to come, and without you, I’ll be of the trees Orpheus sings to, with somber branches and lost leaves. I will talk and write of your eyes, an electric, endless brown. Of your voice, drifting in the air and stopping at nothing to please. Of your figure and grace, destroying wills of men like the Sirens song, yet thicker and more potent, lingering like cigar smoke in the air. Eventually, yes, my mind will move on, but frozen in time would be my emotions for you in these lines, and if ever you need to feel loved, you need only read. If it where to work though, the story takes a different path, which is one I leave to your imagination. An obscurity found in most love stories. ‘They lived happily ever after,’ would, could, be us, where you to dip your fingers (what gentle, beautiful fingers), into the well of my palm. The choice then is yours then, my lovely R------, what’ll it be?