She sang for years,
entwined by thought.
Her eyes, her mind,
ideas so hot.
A strength that grew
from bud to oak.
I balled up my hands
began to choke
"Hi Sheila," I said
it was the bottom line.
"Your songs, your passion
so damn sublime."
"Would you, could you,
we could go out?"
I'm shaking and dripping
my nervousness shouts.
"I'm sorry," she said,
with a smile so soft.
"I live too damn far,"
she bubbled and scoffed.
But what was unclear
my intentions unmade.
Id'a moved to the moon
if it had gotten me laid.