Whenever he engages me in any conversation,
I always watch the motion of his lips.
They curve and curl and roll in a delicious invitation
to sample them with nibbles and with sips.

But that’s a banquet I can ill afford,
so hold me back where I can’t even start.
Let every melting impulse be ignored,
for I don’t want the password to his heart.

The times that he has eagerly described a thing he knows
have let me see the depth within his eyes.
That warm magnetic chocolate brown engages me and shows
how gentle he can be, and even wise.

But I can’t travel farther through that door,
and I don’t want to plumb the inner part.
That’s urge and impulse I think I’ll ignore,
and I won’t hear the password to his heart.

This man is so provocative of what a friend can be,
but he is too irate and sad in soul
to be the partner intimate, entrusted, loving me –
I know he’d always wrestle to control.

Now that’s activity I’ve had before
and learned it wastes my life, so I won’t start
or stay to love this character, this chore:
No, I won’t say the password to his heart.