I can picture you so well,
with that muddy-brown head of hair
sticking up in all directions. Your eyes are so blue
that it hurts to look straight at them; they say you shouldn't stare
directly at the sun, you see. You always complain to me
that I avoid your gaze like the plague, but my fear
is not of you, but of knowing I'll never be
quite good enough for you.

Your skin is pale and glowing and clear -
apart from that line of freckles along your left cheek,
like footsteps on fresh snow. The up and down
tones of your laughter and the violins when you speak
send my mind spiralling. And that serious frown
you wear when something's not right - and that sparkling smile -
and so much more that I can't begin to list it all.

So if I hesitate or hover or stall
when you lean in a little closer, don't think
I'm uninterested, or that my heart sinks
at the sight of you. I simply know the truth -
that I'll never be quite good enough for you.