Disguised writer of Sahara

I would like to wake up one day as a writer. Existence of this writer within me would be only to express my reveries, I have, of you. This writer never writes to show-off his skill, he scrawls only for the love of that exquisite smile your lips behold. He would survive only if you could spare him some moments of gaze, and in return he would give his best of craft to soothe your mind, like the wispy breeze of Sahara calmly flowing over the sand dunes. Don't you dare blemish his hopes, by comparing his scribbling with the great poets of romance, for he knows he never stand a chance with them. Sometimes his lyric would even sound totally disheveled. But if you could pay him your unbroken attention, you would realize that it's a beautifully coordinated Vaudeville of your remembrance. 

Your mysterious self is the only reason for him to keep on his oeuvre moving. He is writing to find a reason for the unfathomable affection he has for you, in his own simple, ludicrous, yet sensuous way. When you stop reading his lines, when you stop paying attention to him, day after day he would relinquish his fallible attempts of luring you. As the mark left by the wind on the sand dunes fade away in time, the writer would end his life with the dagger of words.