There is a very thin line between hope and despair. Yearning is a feeling with which I have become very familiar.
Everyday tasks are infused with thoughts of you.
Questions are asked of myself, no answers come forth.
It is all so hopeless, but then a sentence,
Words gifted from the ether
Bring you into my presence, and all is well.
It’s imagined love, but what romantic notion didn’t begin with butterfly feelings?
Except, here I am, unattainable.
Do I ask too much?
I leave it to you, and I bury my guilt
Beneath the orchids I wish to present
At your feet.
