"Heather 4" was written in April of 1997, regarding a woman that I had (and still have) a great deal of respect for. We were never romantically involved, although I very much wanted to be.

"Poetry from the heart" I wrote in February of 1993. It wasn't about anyone specific, but is similar to "Heather 4" in that it also represents my searching for someone. I entered it as one of several submissions to Rochester Institute of Technology's "Signatures" publication. It was accepted and published.

You stand on the shore,
  bare feet in the sand,
  water gently, coolly curling around your toes.
The sun has just risen,
  rays of light bursting over the tops of clouds
    in the distance.
You walk further down the beach,
    the men and women there,
    pale in the morning light,
      stand, staring at your greatness,
      many take timid steps back, away,
      unable to understand who you are.
      Some stand near, but shield their eyes.
    Others pick up stones, ready to hurl them,
      afraid and angry and envious.
But one man, on his knee before you,
    strong, dark from the sun, raises his head,
    and looks you in the eyes.
As you walk,
    he stands, tall, bold, honest,
    approaches,
  He sees your beauty, your honesty, your brilliance,
    he does not fear you, he does not fear himself,
You move past, but he approaches,
    others move away, even more afraid,
      even more amazed.
He reaches out, takes your hand.
    You hold it tightly
      as you move away from the crowds.

  My head throbs as my mind races,
I see you across the table with candles dancing in your eyes,
they cross the table and dance in mine as well,
shining up through me, from my heart.
  My hands tingle as my breath speeds
from between my moist lips.  I see you there,
your thoughts radiate from you, reflect and glow on the walls.
  Our feet, both bare, dance between us, under the table,
bouncing off the legs, coming close together, but never penetrating
too far into our spaces.
  My heart pounds and desires to be near yours.
  My lips are now dry, my wine glass empty again.
  I can't help but be lost in you as you stand and walk
from the table.  Your confidence flows off your body, waves
of sexuality and arrogance pool around your feet.
  You are back, my glass is filled.
  Our hands touch, carress off each other as the glass is taken
from her hand.  Does she touch mine the same?
  My mouth is still dry, my chest and face still hot.
  The meal is over and the plates and bowls are abandoned where they lay.
  She dissappears behind me, out of view.
  I feel her there now, near me, a hand on my shoulder,
  her breath in my ear, on my neck.
  All she says, all she could ever have said,
    the only thing that could have been so perfect,
    was,
    "Thank you."