Perhaps in this life you'll never by my wife,
And perhaps I'll learn to pretend that that is fine.
At least in these jumbled blurbs and messy words,
I can be yours and I can pretend that you are mine.
If we could touch would it hurt as much,
As never having known the feeling?
If we were close, would I be so engrossed,
Would it still be so appealing?
To love from afar, is to have a scar,
Is to be made permanently weaker.
To live life unrequited is to be blighted,
There's nothing blacker nor bleaker.