I know

I read the poems,
the ones he had made.
The feeling is unbearable,
knowing that these could be for me.
That these could of been true,
and that there could be a chance.
Poetry was our way of talking,
of letting each other know.
But for so long,
I had run away from this.
I had hid myself from my passion,
to write a painting,
to write a masterpiece.
And now that I return,
I find out that he has always been here.
But I'm so afraid,
because if I write another poem,
one desperately about him.
I'm scared that he will not see,
that it was made for him.
He is my inspiration,
no one else can make me write,
write the way I do when I think of him.
I am the soul that breathes his name,
I know that he is the one.
I will never let go of it.
Never.

Now I read his poems,
each with such sad emotion.
Emotion that shows he can never love,
can never love me ever again.
I feel my heart rip at this,
I need him but can't have him.
So I have found out,
no matter how pretty you are,
or smart you are.
No matter how tall,
or skinner one is.
It's the things you do that defines you,
not what you are.

My love,
you have taught me that.
I just wish that I could have another chance.
But if I need to see you eye to eye first,
I will do it.
I would walk a hundred miles for you,
I wouldn't miss a chance to be with you for anything.
You know why?
Because I know I love you.