My dear, I am thinking about you.
It seems to happen every day.
I wonder off to my private world
Of imagination and possibility.
The secret chamber is not challenged
By the old violent pounds
Of a heart denied.
I do not wince at its quaking
Or fear that someone will discover
The rumble and tumble of agony within.
The inner walls are not challenged
By violent raging force.
Now, rather, it is a gentle caress,
A soft push welling up
With every thought of you.
This now threatens to breach my secret walls
And to spill my soul for the world to see.
It is the gentle force,
The fragrant pondering,
Of a life spent in love with you
That reveal my inner contents
As they spill helplessly into my days.
I fear I am more equipped
To handle a brutal, pungent attack,
Than a sweet, romantic brooding.
That I have a growing passion for a woman
Cannot be hidden from those around me.
This seeps its way through my pores
So that it pervades my person.
Though others cannot discern the object of my passion,
They clearly sense what burns within me
Even if it is as yet unidentified to them.
You have been my secret.
Not that I am ashamed,
But afraid and uncertain.
I have not felt it necessary,
Or them necessarily worthy,
To gaze upon you in my secret chamber,
To peruse the pouring possibilities within my soul,
To look at you through the lens of my feeble words.
I have not felt it necessary,
Or them necessarily worthy.
These are inner things for now,
Only to be shared with inner friends.
When I know - if I know -
The will of God is one with my inner chamber,
I will pour out my love for you in a fragrant display
That all will see,
In which all will rejoice.
Until that time, I am content
To keep my secret
As shabbily as I can.
