I am sometimes ashamed; sometimes elated
you are always in my thoughts.
Awkward, I stumble forth, trying to impress upon you
how I truly feel, and often I fail,
but sometimes I do not.
You do not deserve such praise I give you in my thoughts,
such worship.
And you do not deserve such scorn I conger silently
towards you with an emotion so foolish as jealousy.
I wish I were as charming as I believe I can be,
but, of course, I know I am all elbows and knees
when I reach for you and your embrace.
How could I know what to do
if I do not know what to do with myself?
And there you still are
due to tragic or bucolic happenstance
and luck, and possible cosmic intervention
(I am not so skeptical of such serendipitous belief
when I see your face) smiling; staring pensively;
laughing; crying.
I am prone to loving humanity
while still keeping my distance.
Much of the time I am happily or pitifully solitary.
I worry incessantly and apparently act slowly...
Sometimes too slow.
But I do write.
I write out of necessity.
A blank piece of paper is the best way
for me to confront what I believe I must do.
It is without social stigmas, prejudices, politics,
and I can always simply throw it away
if I believe it has no value
other than using it to start a fire.
I love you.
I believe in the strength of that word
as much as I believe in the strength of hate.
I could annotate these words
explaining who or what helped me
understand these feelings.
I will not because for a very long time
I have believed they could never be true again.
Hurt can be strong too. It's a very strong word
and it seems to be the diametric opposite of trust.
I trust you.
I try not to be selfish with you,
but you are one of the few people in my life
I feel the urge to be selfish about.
I don't have the ability to apologize for that
so I will say sorry about the inability.
Be well, beautiful woman;
I hope you won 't one day forget me.
Aaron C. Molden
