There is a very thin line between hope and despair. Yearning is a feeling with which I have become very familiar. 

Everyday tasks are infused with thoughts of you. 

Questions are asked of myself, no answers come forth. 

It is all so hopeless, but then a sentence,

Words gifted from the ether

Bring you into my presence, and all is well. 

It's imagined love, but what romantic notion didn't begin with butterfly feelings?

Except, here I am, unattainable. 

Do I ask too much?

I leave it to you, and I bury my guilt

Beneath the orchids I wish to present

At your feet.