I've written poetry about you, I know you'd find it beautiful (or at least that's what I tell myself on good days) but I can't bring my self to read it outside of my own empty bedroom for fear that somebody well catch a glimpse of my speak and report the findings. Passerby's never make good journalists.
So this is to my unnamed love, who I don't dare approach, but who has been in this position of prominence (I tell myself it's an honor) for quite sometime.
I hope someday to believe in love more than practicality or convenience or fear. I hope that someday I confess my love to you beautiful one, instead of subverting my feelings to relationships or attempted relationships or quick kisses or one night stands or the attempted quick kisses and one night stands that seems somehow more justifiable than coming clean with you.
You probably won't read this. If you do, you probably won't recognize yourself. But if you do both of the former maybe you'd like to confront me instead of waiting for my little game to end...
