by Lionel E. Deimel
I want to tell
you, “I love you,”
And all that those words entail,
But, although I'm determined to say it,
My resolve seems ever to fail.
I hope you know that I’m smitten,
From the times when I hold you near,
But I see in your eyes a deep longing
For my making my love for you clear.
The words, from my heart, don’t come freely,
Though my lips, against yours, try to tell
That I long to always be near you,
That your doubts I yearn to dispel.
So I take up my pen and paper
To set down my thoughts on the page
And tell you how much I adore you,
From now to the end of the age.
I don't know why writing is simpler,
Why it’s hard to converse face-to-face;
Perhaps I need quiet reflection
To express my feelings with grace.
Yet, express them I do, in my letters,
As real as if shouted aloud;
Your reply that you’re ready to marry
Makes this poor correspondent proud.