Secret admirer, I need to talk to you.

I'm a taken girl, I don't know if you knew.

My eyes become glimmering diamonds sprawled across the desert sun when my darling shows up to take his lovely spotlight in my life.

He's got a smile that you could blame thunderstorms on, where lightning strikes in auroral brilliance and those very same streaks of illuminating joy scare our Morning Star behind the foothills -- the dawn's not too far behind its frightened heels.

And secret admirer, I spend days without him by my side.

Those days become treacherous adventures for the mind, an ultimate exercise of patience: drawn out by each lengthy second -- each seeming eternal hour; twenty four of those are just a forever and a half, dear Lord.

I go into withdrawal like some crazed addict in the cold, wet dark.

I get scared that God's gonna come for me tonight and I'd leave his beautiful world without one last good-bye.

It's hell, thinking about it.

Secret admirer: I need to talk to you.

I'm sorry that I'm hiding you away like a rotting skeleton in my tiny closet.

Casablanca doesn't even begin to say it: I'm in love with you, here's to you kid.

I drift off to your arms when I sleep by their side, the only time I feel safe enough to even think of you.

Remembering the feel of your warm hand in mine terrifies me because I might say your name instead of his when I'm holding onto them.