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The first poem I felt like writing in English! Not too bad!

It's a shameful cycle of longing to be with him that I'm stuck in.

When he's far away, all I can think of is

What I would give to see him,

To look fondly upon his face and into his eyes

It's really kind of cliché, isn't it?

And when he's near it gets worse, far worse, because

Nothing but my own caution is keeping me from taking his hand when I'm close enough to him to do so

Or even to lean a weary head on his shoulder, just because he's near

He is near, and I am tired, and terribly romantic when I can't think straight

And he's warm, his voice is low and rumbling and he's draped in such soft flannel

He becomes irresistibly comfortable and I must resist it

I resist it because I wonder

If I took his hand, would he still pull away?

And it's that state of hypothetical pull-away that has me feeling 

Something I don't know how to name other than

Slightly cold.  

Cold, and wanting to be closer.

Author's Note

I didn't proofread at ALL. Comments are appreciated!