I have these gentle feelings,
I know not what to make of.
These unfamiliar feelings
Are intrusive and unheard of
My thoughts of her are tinted, with hues of darkest red.
She fills my line of vision, she swirls around my head.
With every smile she flashes, she fills my gut with lead,
My heart with burning terror, my life with growing dread,
And yet I do not love her, or like her; instead,
I want only to please her; I only ever wanted,
To lavish her, to flatter, to sing to sleep and put to bed,
To serenade, to woo and win, and possibly to wed.
I have these gentle feelings, they threaten to undo me:
She may love me, she may not- the thought itself is agony.
P.S: To a certain long-limbed friend of mine; I know I promised to lay off the mushy stuff for a bit. But whatever shall we write about, if not love?