Oh that you were a romantic. Then I could whisper my love to you across the wires. I could love you from afar. I would let this well spring of silly words over flow your cup in the way they fill my mind. I would love you in mass and earnestly.
But you are sadly practical in your love. You hold it lightly like an injured bird, worried force might crush it. Yet confidently knowing it will never fly away. Or if it does know that it was meant to be, that the poor dove now knew the thrill of flight.
Oh if only I were that practical. I could set my love aside. I could let you fly away with out these tears in my eyes.
