But I dream of your image
distorted by the glass window
dashing across on your way to places
only in my imagination could follow.
My breath painting the surface
of the glass with secrets I swallow
with dismay, for you will never belong
to my heart in this reality,
nor will I ever touch your hair
the way the wind does in the misty rain.
And for you a moment not long
but an eternity in my despair
to taste this instance in time,
distorted by my longing your image
the only thing truly mine-
“See how she leans her cheek upon her hand.
O, that I were a glove upon that hand
That I might touch that cheek!”
― William Shakespeare, Romeo and Juliet