Upon Condition Of Tomorrow

I wonder what my urge is to tell you, scream out to you, of how and the extent to which, I'm bent on saying you make me feel alright. I know only three words to describe, but they mislead your heart from my mind.

I like you; what's to claim such feeling? And so exclaimed that I'm almost ashamed, because for those three words, which lead to another three, speaking them sees responsibility and blame. When as all words, especially for actions, tire and become untrue they reap only rue from both sides they were ever uttered or whispered between sleep's quiet shutters.

In misleading your heart from my mind I mean this: I speak of my fondness within context of time. Of time as such, that it doesn't exist, as I can not know tomorrow. Because to know tomorrow and that it exists, which I don't, is to promise my heart won't change. Those that never change heart live in the hope of tomorrow because to dispose it doesn't exist reckons unbearable sorrow.

So my urge is not invoked by you as much as it is my hope. Not hope, see, for tomorrow, but rather my continuation in imbuement of feeling and further this is why I cannot utter those other three words 'I love you'. It's too great a condition of this existence tomorrow.