How worthless is that thing called love (it is no love at all)
That strikes the heart with just the right strength
To leave all hope of sense behind!
It calls forth with such force a rage of sweat for palms,
Great clattering of knees, and the incessant drumming of the heart.
It is of the same devilish invention as the attention of
A dear trapped in headlights.
In full, I hope to be a friend, just a friend,
And put well aside this kind, this sin, of emotion.
In truth, my greatest offense is my affection
Which, without doubt, will tear apart all hope of sense and friendship.
But even in this darkness, I do hope against hope,
That your palms may soak in the sweat of your fear
And your knees left weak from the gaze of my eyes,
That even you might lose reason and feel with depth
The vast ocean that lies before you,
Waiting to be measured with the cup of the finitude
Of the time we may yet spend together,
A hope that one day we can live the
Beautiful portrait of the wonder of love.