This is a story,
One with no threshold,
Nor an edge,
It's all proportional,
Yet it tells it all,
Nobody knows what's it about,
Especially the writer,
For how can he say he's in love,
The kind of love you can only feel,
For that one person,
Not knowing how to write,
Nor knowing how to speak,
Words are easily said,
But dares he show it too,
The beating of his heart,
The warmth that fills him inside,
And the smile she leaves behind,
Dares he show what he thinks,
If she even likes him,
With all his faults, his mistakes,
His thinking of messing up,
With all the words he has spoken,
Or haven't said aloud,
Always holding back, afraid,
To hurt,
To show,
Spooked of that one word,
That drives it all,
For this is his story,
A story with no beginning, nor a end,
That he knows of,
And falling is the only thing,
He seems to have knowledge of.
