You have delivered me from myself,
Returned my echo with a sweet sincerity,
That I do not deserve.
Through no fault of my own,
I might add:
No soul deserves what you can give,
For the gift is too great,
That balance is illusory.
When winter descends and bundles others up,
I swim in the warmth of nostalgia,
Reminiscing the struggle of digging up the courage to whisper:
“Je ne peux pas être mais je t’aime.”
Sideways glances revealing coy smiles,
Leapt out like tethers,
Holding me closer to you,
Than I deserve.
I’ll still contest that it isn’t my fault:
Because try as I might,
I could never be deserving of your light.