I’m grateful for the icy drops of rain.

They are the tears I wish to cry.

This soul is dying, growing inane,

Yet still my eyes stay dry.

I want to weep, to sigh, to speak,

But there is no language for my heart.

To hope, to trust; I am too weak.

This is a tragedy, a work of art.

For what is a smile,

If it is not a gift from her.

How far exactly is a mile,

If it leads to where she were?

Is there ever such thing as time well spent,

If such a thing she never desires to spend?

What can be real, when one’s dream is the extent…

Of all that separates a lover from a friend?

I wait alone for her to reach for me,

Just a subtle gesture, unselfishly kind.

For what in the world could truly be,

If such a love she could never find.