| Dear Shelley, |
| I have sweet confessions |
| inlaid with gold, |
| but for me to tell you |
| would be too bold. |
| Although I would like |
| to share my love, |
| I doubt you'd like |
| what I'm made of. |
| Though I am made |
| of petals of rose |
| that's not your taste, |
| a part of me knows. |
| And yet such longing |
| and such despair |
| of wanting belonging |
| not when nor where. |
| For time is no factor |
| in my small sorrow, |
| as it's still an actor |
| when comes the morrow. |
| So close yet so far |
| is the way that we are, |
| when so like in lattice |
| and so unlike in practice. |
| My love for you |
| so entwined with romance |
| is much ado |
| because it gives me no chance. |