Qu'est-ce que fuck? [or Red are roses, even in winter's firm grip.]

You seem to have read me wrong. The important fact of me is that I care about the soul of the other; your soul. A silhouette of you is imprinted on my heart and I only wish that it was likewise for you. Truly, I would do anything at all if I thought it would make you smile, if it would cause you joy. The fact that I am so quiet doesn't mean I have nothing to say, but that I like to hear what you are saying. I don't find silence awkward, I find it gives me a moment to think about the words you've spoken and to watch and observe the wonderful being that is you. Any event, as trivial as whispered poetry or as tumultuous as sexual climax, is only a small spark in the fire that burns within me. And I so much want it to burn for you and you alone. But you wave farewell before I even get to ask how your day was. You smile and leave, knowing little or nothing about me. In my dreams, you come back. If only you would come back, give me a chance, accept what I offer. Promises are for children and young lovers; I am neither. All I ever offered was to try, to see what would happen. The chance to feel and explore beyond the first hello and the last goodbye. I know I ask too much, I know I ask the seemingly impossible, but I whisper into the wind anyway, that perchance you unsteel your heart and once again I can look into your smiling eyes and say hello. Love is worth a whisper, love is worth a chance, love is worth a dream.