A poem I wrote a few years back

One Thousand Times

One thousand times a coward lives
and still I am not dead. How
I wish to be with you
but cannot bring myself to ask
you out, not even once. I
kick myself each time I miss
a chance to take a chance
to better know you. Your smile,
as white as snow
in the Andes mountains, has me trapped
like a puppy in a pen. Your movement
is poetry, strong, elegant, refined
as a ballerina in Swan Lake
as you pirouette side to side
forward and back, hitting the ball
not looking back. Your tan skin
soft as satin entrances my mind
thrills my eyes, temps my fingers,
sends neurons firing,
messages flying
like tennis balls
across the court
back and forth
head to heart
into the net,
into the net that is you
and I have yet to touch you, feel you.
I am alive but am I really
alive or just floating like a fly in honey
trapped by curiosity, marking time
until the end of life when the final bell tolls.
One thousand times a coward dies
but did I ever live?