I’m not scared of him.
He’s scared of me.
He's scared that he once lost something so close, so dear that he's afraid he'll loose again.
He's scared that I'm charming, and if I'm around he'll never concentrate on his goals and so called decisions.
He’s scared that I’m too interesting, that I’ll distract him from all the other girls.
He's scared that we share something so strikingly similar that I might manipulate him into sharing something more.
He’s scared that I’m too attractive, and that if I’m around, the he’ll never make it out of bed in the morning.
He's scared of my outrageously blunt and direct approach that he is afraid that I'm too good to be true.
He's scared of the mind- games we play, and the things we could do if we spent more time together in real.
He’s scared that I’m too vivacious and wild, and that I’ll leave him all worn out and sore.
He's scared of my scent, my physical appeal and my lively zeal. He's scared of my careless whisper, my little love notes and my cornered smiles. He's scared that I'm too popular, too geeky and too mouthy. He's scared of my day dreams, my presence and the clicking of my heels. He's scared of all this and how they remind of him.
He scared of me. And yet, he wants me.