There's a florist down my street who sells roses; red, pink, white, you name it. He hand selects the beauties that are so delicate that it'll make your heart melt. When you've got your bouquet, he wraps it in a crinkly plastic and ties it up with a soft satin bow. I got on my bike, rode down to the small little flower shop, and looked at it for a while. The aroma of its perfume twisted and fused with the cool air of nightfall and it was so beautiful, so indescribably alluring, so hopelessly glorious, that all I wanted was to place it in a bottle and keep it by my bedside table. After a few minutes, I biked. I biked and I biked. I biked all the way back to my safe, sheltered room and that's where I stayed. I didn't have the bottled scent, I didn't have roses; all I had were feelings.

With the picture of flowers still in my vision and velvet roses still on my fingertips, my mind coveted a souvenir as well. And, what better little trinket to have than memories and thoughts of you. My mind went wild as I succumbed to the teenage girl in me, and I was flushed with sweet dreams and honey-dripped scenarios. I had hoped they weren't too far fetched, but the sense in me tried to smother those hopes with little success. Being a dreamer and a realist is a deadly pairing.

I can't conjure words to paint the everlasting passion in your eyes. I can't describe the embers on your smile. I can't fathom the ocean in your veins and I can't understand the fire on your touch. No matter how quick my mind, no matter how clear my visuals, I will never be able to create what would happen to my feelings if I were right in front of you, right now.