By D. R. DiFrancesco

Do not look me in the eyes my love,

For my intentions are seldom pure as a dove.

In constant labor to prove my worth are I,

Lest I fall from your grace wither and die.

With a gentle stoke of my cheek you reassure me,

That I am all you ever hoped that I could be.

Still I fret that my offering is not enough,

Insecurity has aged me wrinkled rough.

Yet you look upon me as if youthful and spry,

With a devil-may-care twinkle in your eyes.

And that come hither smile you so oft display,

Leaves me breathless as always in night or day.

Unworthy am I to be held in esteem,

Yet with each day I awake to find this isn’t a dream.

Should this not be what love is about,

I ponder and pray that it’s never in doubt.

Maybe, my love, in all the world you’re unique,

To have fallen for this fool with all others you could seek.

If this somehow by irony be true,

No one else could I have cherished any more than you.