What I really mean is, I'm content.
Not dancing souls together bent like rushes,
our two hearts close but not touching -
beating hearts that do not beat in time.
We do not rhyme; I do not echo you.
There is no raw red passion when we kiss - no spark,
or darkened corner in a dim-lit room -
no bliss of midnight ecstasy,
but just the misty grey of shadows on my heart.
I say my secret silently,
and do not share my tired no, but whisper a resounding yes -
nor do I smile as now you stroke my hair
and tell me how you love me;
it's so much easier to say
I love you too