A Small Note From Me To You

It ain't a subject of failure on your side,
But rather a widespread of disease on mine.
We've known not much of each other,
And we've bled not enough sweat on our shells.
I regard it as sinful for such a commend,
A commend that tormented me on my niches,
A volume of whose width travel distances,
A sign of failure to the one who sees not.
Haven't I waved signs of contentment?
Haven't I mingled the atmosphere around you like a glider?
Eeire as it might
My affections clear blossom like cancer,
And the motion is more like a proposal.