by Eric Y. Theriault

There you are,
Standing there before me,
Awaiting for some words,
that my lips cannot form.

It is not that I am not interested,
Or that I do not find you beautiful.
Nor is it that I know not the words,
Of which I would like to state.

Why, you inquire,
must I await to state
My feelings towards you?
Perhaps for fear.

Fear that your heart,
Does not feel the same as mine,
and that my foolish thoughts,
maybe misunderstood again.

Fear, that perhaps,
I am on the train tracks
All alone, with the train quickly approaching,
And that I will be hurt again.

So, I'll wait.
Don't ask me how long,
For I know not,
But I'll wait.