overanalyze.

were i to confess

i still don't know what i would say.

but i suppose it could be worse.

my tea is turning cold and

my book lies, left unread

as my mind churns.

thoughts and thoughts of

you and that and this

a new thing.

what thing?

a thing.

what was, what is

what could be.

what may never be.

and those oh-so-persistant

wonderings.

now,

were it to come up in conversation

or were you to ever call,

i'd say my feelings are true,

and right.

but i sit,

wondering

whether yours were ever there

at all.