One,

I will not ask your name
in case it becomes my new lullaby
turned over and over again.

Two,

I will not kiss you first
in case pecked it remains with me
a silent signature of your lips.

Three,

I will not dance with you
in case the drink blurs your face into my dreams,
watching between Love and Like.

Four, 

I will not tell you my hopes
in case you fall for those
and not for me.

Five,

I will not touch you
in case you become that which I hold onto
dark, groping, unable to see.

Six,

I will not speak to you
in case your voice begins to merge
with the heartdrum in my chest.

Seven,

I will not text you quickly,
or leave you kisses
in case I begin to fall 
and fall and fall and fall
for you.