I wish you were
an open journal.
That I could then read you,
laugh at you,
cry over you,
experience you.

You would be mine,
to keep tied up
with a satin ribbon,
and to sleep near at night.
To always feel near to.

The parts of you
most dear to me
I would take,
and fold, and keep;
tucked hidden in my breast,
near to my heart.

But you are you,
and because you are,
you shall never hear these words.

You will never know
how your touch thrills my heart,
lights me on fire.

You will never know
that in a crowd,
my eyes can pick you out like a hawks'.

You will never know
how angry I get
when people try to intimidate you,
talk about you behind their hands
or when I see you with other girls,
and not me.

You will never know
that the gaze I throw your way
is not a friendly glance,
but a loving, caressing touch.
Satisfying me but...
not quite.

All that I wish I could tell you,
you will never know.

And should these words
fall to thine sky-blue eyes,
I only hope you will know it's me,

and agree.