It pounds itself out gently through little white keys,
All the while it dreams of leading my hands toward your soft hair,
Your perfect face that can only try to distract from the brilliance of your whirring mind,
Hoping that it might brim enough to finally force the words
"I love you."
They live just behind my lips,
Belonging to you, but too shy of you to risk an appearance.
They will wait, I suppose,
Until the love in my fingertips brims
And the glow growing behind my ribs shines through my eyes.
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