I can’t explain
you to myself,
nor my brain.
I look at you in wonder,
and wonder:
“Am I going insane?”
To like you so much;
to want to reach you,
to reach out for you,
and to feel and give touch.
To feel like I should
refrain,
and I would
if I could.
It’s more than I can explain.
But I like it.
A lot.
Two Wordsworth.