Step Aside Shakespeare

XI

There's so much I wanteth to bid thee but

being face-to-face leaves me breathless. All

the rich jokes and flirtations I discussed

before erode into a jumbled sprawl

of grunts and sighs. What good is a spoken

language when I can't think beyond the fine

color of thy eyes or the mere notion

of feeling thy hands brusheth against mine?

Instead, I writeth to thee every day.

To thy surprise, thee couldst gorge to the glut

on the thoughts I can finally convey.

I knoweth not if I love thee. But 

this heart doth feel liketh a home of thine.

Aye, more than it hast ever been of mine.