They touch me,
Just the way I’d like her fingers to touch mine,
Her lips to touch mine...
They make me dream,
How the evenings with her would be,
Will I listen to her stories, or will she listen to mine as well?
They make me smile,
And I just think about her,
Does she smile as well while writing them?
They makes me worry,
Those poems of pain, stories of agony,
Who wipes her tear?
They make me fall in love,
In love with her, her smiles, her tears,
Her happiness, her dreams and her fears…
They make me wonder,
If I ever write about her,
Would she like to read my words?
She might not,
But her words,
I wish I could read them forever...