Pain

It is late in the night,
that I, as worn as one could be,
stand here to ponder on thine fortune and favor.

It is dreadful to the heart,
to remain silent and still as I am,
never able to voice out thy feelings,
thy thoughts, thy desires...

Why?

Why must I suffer such an ailment as this?

Is true love so challenging, so much of an obstacle,
that it, as gentle and caring as it is embodied,
can be cruel and merciless in its strife,
that I,
from an age of but a mere boy,
suffered it's backlash one too many times often,
even when I was but a lad of tender youth.

It is thou,
my Eden,
that I desire.

Turmoiled am I, to desire someone so distant,
yet so loving, and just.

My feeling for you aren't that of any other soul,
or any other man that seeks you out.

Is it,
or is it not love that I feel?

Too early,
gravely early it is to tell.

Many brazen,
brazen but foolish youths would claim this to be love,
to think themselves deserving in your eyes for their feelings are genuine...

But no, they are not.

Oh, such sweet torment is this,
to not hear your words,
but see them clearly in my eyes,
to be able to glance upon them over and over again
as word plays for word in any form I wish...

But it is my wish to listen to you,
to hear your voice,
as fleeting or quick-hearted as it is,
that even if it may last for that ever-pacing moment,
it is your voice,
even that of waterfalls gently cascading down,
or choirs singing,
that even all those things,
are nothing compared to your melodious voice.


I stand here in the night, watching the night sky veiled in a blanket of stars,
and ponder if it is me you will ever think about,
as painfully impossible as it seems.


My Eden.
I need you with me.