This diminutive feeling we give love.
Staying up all night long!
Thoughts like spiders,
creeping, eight-legged memories.
Through the night you'll
spin, quietly webbing together
the reasons for the sorrow.
So many opportunities to speak!
Yet, I'd choke on hopeless words.
Only had I the chance to...
Only had I the nerve.
Yes that bravery, courage.
Encouragement from fellows.
Go for it man! Unrequited love
is a Hollywood myth.
I'd plan the scernario.
Ever the dreamer.
Red cheeks. pure blue blood.
Yet so astonishingly warm to the touch.
Absolutely perfect smile.
I nearly went to cardiac arrest, I mean
it's that weakening, that feminine
disarmament.
Loathing myself for dying out.
Like a bad star, well, not particulary
alluding, I was burning downward,
towards the core, the depths
of the ominous, the obscure.
Rhyming away won't capture her heart.
None of the whims, the desire, I thought
I had you like a silent pearl,
imprisoned, in bondage of that capsule.
I'd float along, like the seaweed in the tide.
Just a classic disaster, just overanalzying
a precarious, inflated dream.
Dream, a dream, yes that has to be this
truth, this, this allusion
of that of Abel, the cynical Ruth.
Throughout history,
add another tragedy.
It has to be,
this ramble, confession
whatever you may please.
The arbitrary, incessant nature
of this diminutive feeling we give love.