by Eric Y. Theriault

Through the window,
she observes discreetly;
But no matter how I try,
my eyes always escape,
and to the window they remain focused.
I swear that she grows more beautiful,
as each day goes by,
and I would surely enjoy that look in her eye,
as I present her a peach coloured rose,
that would so nicely compliment her dress.
Her smile is so precious,
and such memorable eyes;
she's more than a dream,
and better than an angel.
I feel so much for her inside,
yet I am too shy,
to start the conversation,
by knocking at her window.