In
the beginning, I couldn't tell you. Too
shy, too afraid. I didn't know how to approach you -- I would make
small talk, rarely attempting anything meaningful. Your
presence froze time. In our short-lived moments together, it was just me and you.
You later took the
next step and invited me out, something I had been unable to do. It was that night at the dance that I first
conveyed your beauty to you. You were by far the most beautiful; I told you, and you
blushed. We sat, we talked, we finally danced. I will never forget that night.
Our time together has been the
best of my life. Nearly a year I've been
privileged to spend with you; holding your hand, sitting close by, opening your door. I've tried to tell you what I see, but you don't see it. Won't see it. Ever since that night, I've tried to
recapture the look on your face, the shy
reaction, the thoughts that must have been going on in your head. I think I have succeeded a few times, but I can't know for sure. You've
hurt me, unknowingly remarking to my compliments in a manner only I saw as
harsh. You didn't mean it.
I forgive you.
I've tried to tell you so many ways. Through my unceasingly
loyal actions, my manners, my caring, my
love. But I want to tell you, I want to speak the words softly to you, I want you to blush once again. But you don't. I've tried showering you in
affection, only to be hurt. I've tried being more sparse in my comments and saying them just when necessary, only to still be hurt. I've tried taking away my expressions of affection completely,
resigned to being hurt.
You are better about it today than you were six months ago, but I'm
afraid, as I was a year ago. I've never completely stopped being
nervous around you, and you know why. After all of our great time together, you still freeze time, it's still just me and you. I want to tell you, but I'm afraid you won't
listen: you are, in every possible way, achingly
beautiful.