Difficulty of saying Something

As I glided over the crest
and slipped
over the trough of your brow,
fringe of your eyelashes blushed
watching my ungainly plight,
somehow
all words sank deep into
the depth of the blue
orbs; my prying self questioned
is love a kind of illness?
To be cured, maybe
by a potion prepared from
petals of a delicate rose,
felt by your lips?

Your were telling stories
of how often love splits, yet lingers
I was roaming aimless
in a maze of polished fingers
toying disobedient tresses
teasing
my quivering wits.

After you went silent
and possibly feeling spent,
for the sake
of saying something
I fumbled up
"when are we meeting
yet again?"

The reply was
Silence.