Ron, I'd wait by the bedroom door
like a maid that was scrubbing the floor
of your room with eyes that would implore
to see you just a little more.
Ron, in your eyes, I'm not stressed,
but in mine, I'm distressed
to be not a cog in your myriad of mistresses,
to be not in your presence, a mere guest.
Ron, in your eyes, I'd like to be appraised
as one whose chin with your finger you'd raise.
To be bountiful in all things (as any girl you'd chase)
in your estimation - your foremost taste.