The idea of a man

I work better as the idea of a man, 
Without form,  
without haste,  
without nerves. 
To be imagined from afar
Touched only in your mind
Seen only in your memory 
Rose tinted and rose scented. 
Better in thought than in flesh, 
Or over ether, deliberate, 
With thought in word and pictures drawn 
Of time spent in reflection. 
The true self lies,  of course,
somewhere in between
The rash,  rushed boy
and the considered man. 
The idea hovers above,  transcends. 
Your presence is not to blame
For that which it inspires in me
The fault is mine,  the blame lies here.
Remember only that boyish words of haste 
Spring forth from nervous mouths, 
And that the idea of a man
is watching 
Cautioning 
Wishing 
For the peace he once found with you.