Maybe it is better not to change;
quietly, forever still to stay,
so that in time we never will regret
the aftertaste of pleasure- pleasure ends
and beauty, once held captured, dies its death.
Maybe it is better to remain
as statues, frozen close in love's first throe,
who cannot touch (for they are made of stone)
but linger there for always in the bliss
of keen anticipation of their kiss.
Perhaps if we pretend (as now we do)
to never yet have known each other's hearts
then silent love will secretly sustain
the memory of being in your arms
(of drowning in your eyes, of having you)
and maybe it would justify our past,
to drench ourselves in hope and shed this pain.
Or maybe then, we'll free ourselves from truth;
I'll never alter my idea of you
as perfect, this idea instead
will go untarnished by discovered flaws-
my heart can go on blindly being yours
and disappointment never rears its head.
And then- if I write my heart into these lines-
will all of this be worth it? Will we, then,
be grateful that we acted as we should
and will my heart be vanquished by my pen
or will all this not come to any good?
Will then we be immortalised like this,
upon the verge of a first, earth-shaking kiss?
I wonder now, if after this long wait,
you maybe tire of me, or even worse
if maybe time is up, and far too late,
we never reach that point of no return
because you can't (or won't)
try being brave.
I only hope that my whole life freezes here-
that time will stop and simply cease to pass-
I'm not sure I can carry on like this;
not knowing if you're mine- and afraid to ask.