I wrote a poem about my therapist.  I could never show it to her, though I'm dying to!  I want to bring her a dozen red roses, my poetry, and maybe some chocolate covered strawberries.  When I go see her, this is what I'm thinking about, so I don't know what to talk about.  Somehow we end up talking about something, but I'm still thinking about what she's wearing and how it looks on her, and wondering where she bought it, and imagining her there--like in Nordstroms, like just a regular person.  I wish I could invite her out for coffee, or to come with me to the beach or something.  Maybe she'd let me hold her hand, and we could roll up our pant legs and take off our shoes and walk in the foamy water as it comes and goes.  It's driving me nuts that I don't know much about her.  I just don't have the guts to ask her anything.  I wonder if I'm her type; I wonder if she's attracted to me too?