Shyness

I risk a hidden glance when you're not looking. I want to gaze into your eyes until we forget the colors of each other's iris and remember the pigments of our souls. I want you to see me as I truly am: a man of ideas, of possibilities, not merely a man of solutions to your ordinary problems of toner and connectivity but one open to the possibility of us. Of climbing a willow tree and lying in its branches together, of watching the sun redden with the coming of night. To see these things, I fear, I would have to look into your eyes and you would have to see me and in that glance, I fear, you would truly see me: my desires (My need to run my hand down your chin, to pull you close, to taste your lips.), my hopes (That you'd find me humorous but not laughable, that you've been looking for a man who could pluck that one, hidden smile, that one elusive laugh from your being, and with that bounty fulfilled you could forgive all my faults. You could look past the business casual trappings and see the artist within.), my fear (That you would see how much of my time I spend thinking of you, of pondering our future, and it will scare you. It will convince you that I am obsessing, that I am coming on too strong, and you will run, run away from my too obvious glances. Why? Because you are smart and I love you for it.) But, maybe, just maybe, if I can slow down enough, if I can keep my heart from leaping quite so high each time I see you, if I can censor my words before they come flooding out, if I don't look directly into your eyes, then maybe there's a chance.