Play-by-play.

You tell me what I mean to you.
The feeling is mutual.
I've been thinking about asking all day, but now I sit back,
Scared out of my mind.
The keyboard glares at me, mocking me.
"You can't do it," it seems to be saying, "you're still the pansy you've always been."
I'll show you.
Deep beath, and here's the plunge.
Now all there is to do is wait. Wait for the reply.
Rejection.



"Dust it off and keep walking, you pansy."
I'm sick of the keyboard mocking me.